


An Edifice of Fear

by semi_sweet



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Berlin - Freeform, Berlin Wall, Blowjobs, Captivity, Established Relationship, German, Germany, M/M, Non-Canon Age Difference, Peterick, Psychological Torture, Separation, WWII, World War II, but I altered details so don't use this for revision ladz, butt stuff, cold war au, detainment, modern history, some historical accuracy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-03-11 11:25:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 41,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13523259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semi_sweet/pseuds/semi_sweet
Summary: If he was honest with himself, Pete was getting too damn old to still be in the army. He should be settled somewhere back home in the US with a wife and some kids, maybe a dog, living the American Dream. Unfortunately, his love isn't exactly wife-material. Or American. And in 1961 Berlin, what could possibly go wrong?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! It's here!
> 
> This is based on historical fact, but does diverge from it. Use of German language, however, you don't need to understand the German bits, it's all explained in English at some other point. If you want, I can translate every phrase, though, and stick it in the notes at the bottom for you, let me know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to SnitchesAndTalkers for beta'ing this!

_ July 23 _ _ rd _ _ 1961 _

The sun glistened on the sheen of sweat clinging to skin that looked like it hadn’t been exposed in years, making it shine like a million diamonds and sparkling with every twitch of muscle that rippled through Patrick’s body. The only sounds coming from him were quiet, content sighs and the occasional gasp, always in time with the motion of Pete’s tongue lapping against his pretty, pink cock. Pete, with his big, brown eyes and his coarse curls that currently had fingers gripping it so hard they were white at the knuckles. This was stupid, and it was dangerous and probably illegal, but honestly? Patrick was too pretty to resist. Those Germans with their blue eyes and their pale skin and their oh-so-sensible manners that disappeared the second something - or someone - caught their interest, mmh, yes, they were just to his taste.

 

“Ah, Scheiße, Pete…” Pete didn’t pull off when Patrick hit his high, instead making sure to gather every drop of salty white between his lips and obediently swallow it down because, hey, it was hot.

“You okay, baby?” He drawled, voice low and hoarse from the abuse his throat had just suffered. It would be fine, he’d had worse. Patrick didn’t reply, too preoccupied with fighting to get air back into his lungs. Pete curled up next to his lover, head on his chest so he could hear his heartbeat steadying. 

 

“You’re… you’re amazing…” The heavy accent had always made Pete smile. It had got a little better in the past year, no longer so obviously foreign, but it was still there, that German undertone. Not that Pete was complaining, Patrick’s English was fantastic, way better than his German, but it was cute. Pete grinned up at him. 

 

“Ich liebe dich.” It sounded terrible, he knew that, he knew there was no hint of authenticity when he attempted to speak Patrick’s language, but it made the blonde smile, made his eyes sparkle as he leaned forward to press a kiss into the short hair that was somehow always coiled, no matter how closely shorn. 

 

“I love you, too.”

Patrick being Patrick, the moment he’d come back down to earth, he started fidgeting again, chattering away about nothing, never pausing to catch a breath. Pete didn’t mind, it was nice to have somebody to listen to. Whether it was about the show last night, the annoyingly loud neighbours, that fucking awful TV-program that was on Sunday evenings that Patrick always complained about, yet seemed to be caught up on, it didn’t matter. Pete liked the sound of his voice, liked his company, liked… Patrick.

“We need to be more careful, Pete…” he said gently, fingertips carding through short curls. Pete didn’t like the sound of the sudden serious note to his voice. 

“What, even more careful?” He hated having to pace around in secret, only ever touching behind locked doors, barely able to talk or even be seen in public. Of course, Pete had to go and fall in love with a fucking  _ German _ of all people. No matter what they said, the American army still didn’t trust Germans fifteen years down the line, especially not a German from the East. More to the point, the Soviets didn’t trust the Americans, especially not an American soldier stationed in West Berlin. This was Romeo and Juliet if Juliet were a man and about four times cockier than in the original.

 

“You sent me flowers! Fucking flowers, like nobody’s gonna notice that?”

“I had Maria write the note…”

“Yes, my  _ cousin _ . As if people wouldn’t question it,” Patrick hissed. He wasn’t much of a worrier, never had been once since the day they’d met, literally bumped into each other in Berthelsdorfer Straße, bags of Apples toppling to the floor as Patrick had cursed and apologized more than was strictly necessary to the two American soldiers. Pete was pretty sure he’d been convinced he was about to get thrown in jail or something, but he’d just sent the German on with a clap to his shoulder. Odd how similar scenarios had just kept occurring until Pete asked him for his name… Patrick knew how to get his way, it was terribly inconvenient.

“I honestly think people would presume you were just very close with your cousin before they’d presume you were fucking me…” Patrick shot him a glare, “What?! You  _ are  _ fucking me. Half the time.”

“Maria is too good to you, you don’t deserve her”, Patrick quickly changed the topic. All Pete could do was shrug. The little woman who worked at Pete’s favourite pub probably  _ was _ too good to him, put up with way too much of his bullshit, listened to way too many of his boring sob-stories. Must run in the family. 

 

“You’re not wrong.” Patrick rolled his eyes. 

 

“I mean it, Pete,” there was concern in his voice, “things have been getting weird lately, there’ve been… stories, and… I kinda don’t want the police on my ass.” 

 

He’d rolled onto his side so they were facing each other, naked bodies not touching except for where their hands were clasped together. He looked worried. Pete offered a reassuring smile, the best he had on offer. “I’ll be more careful, I promise.“

Patrick shuffled closer and curled up against the American’s chest, golden hair fluttering against inked skin as Pete traced comforting lines across his back with the tips of his fingers.

“They were here again yesterday…”  _ They. _ Pete put a hand to Patrick’s face and turned his head until their eyes met. Beautiful, blue eyes. The German stereotype. He seemed concerned, of course, anybody would be if the Police suddenly decided your home was a favourite meet-up of theirs “What did they want?”

“Dunno. They knocked on my door and wanted to know if I was alone and if I’d had guests at all that day and where I worked and then they left. Still weird.” Pete pressed a gentle kiss to Patrick’s head. The Soviets had always been a little more… hands-on than the Americans. Not by much, they were just kind of control freaks. He’d never questioned it much until he’d fallen in love with an idiot from Lichtenberg. “I hate keeping you a secret… fuck them, I don’t care… honestly, fuck the R-”

 

Pete quickly silenced him by pressing a finger to his lips. They were beautiful, round and soft. “Don’t say stuff like that, you don’t know why they’ve started taking an interest in you. Not worth the trouble.”

“Why, are you gonna tell on me?” Patrick and his big mouth. It really would get him into trouble someday, Pete suspected. All caution his actions held had a tendency to disappear when he was behind closed doors where nobody could hear him. Problem was, this was Berlin. Somebody was always listening.

“Have you thought about that apartment in Neukölln?” It was a small flat, a small kitchen, a bedroom and a bathroom and Neukölln wasn’t the nicest part of town, but it was in the West. More importantly, it was in Pete’s area of the city. Of course, Pete had told him about places like Marienfelden, but Patrick had scoffed at the idea of living in a refugee camp, saying he’d rather sleep on the floor of Maria’s pub and Pete couldn’t really blame him.

 

“Yeah… yeah, I think I might have the money by September or October. Then I’m outta here…”

“Is it really so bad?” Pete lived with a bunch of soldiers in the barracks back in the American sector, it was his only option, it was fine, really, but they heard stories of the East, how the Commies didn’t restock supermarket shelves, how they held a strict curfew, how they’d recently been knocking on doors and – Pete didn’t know if this still held any truth in it – dragging people out of their homes at the dead of night. 

Patrick shrugged. “It’s okay, y’know. I mean I wish I didn’t have to check the shop four times a week to see if they’ve got apples yet, but…” Patrick had since explained exactly why he’d been carrying bags and bags of the things that time in Kreuzberg… fucking idiot, travelling for over an hour to buy apples. Of course, lugging apples over the border did mean he was frequently stopped and, recently, had been made to actually leave them behind for the guards at the checkpoints to eat. Of course, this wouldn’t have happened ten years ago when travel had been so free there hadn’t been checkpoints, but Pete hadn’t known Patrick then… three years it had been now. Admittedly, a few months in between when Pete had returned to the States, but when he’d begged to be sent back, he’d been laughed at and flown over with no further comment.

Nobody wanted to be sent to Berlin. If hell broke loose, they’d be the first to get hit. He knew that. Every idiot knew that. It was amazing how good a job the city did of ignoring it, life went on, the Easterners worked in the West because they made more money there, the Westerners avoided the ugly East until they had family to visit and life went on.

Three years. Were Patrick a woman, they’d likely be married by now. In America they could probably get away with this, people were more open-minded now. It wouldn’t be easy, but maybe…

The bed creaked when Patrick sat up. He sneered down at the sticky mess Pete had left on his sheets like it was offensive. “Sorry… I’ll be more careful.”

“It’s fine, just… y’know.” 

 

Pete pouted in protest when Patrick swung his legs over the side and made grabby hands towards him. “Come back, pleeeaaase!” The German threw him an amused glance over his shoulder before getting up and pulling on a shirt. Always the shirt first. What an odd little guy he was. Once a pair of brown trousers had been added to the outfit, Patrick crossed over to Pete’s side of the bed and bent over to meet him in a sweet kiss. 

 

“You should get going,” Patrick muttered quietly. Pete moaned his disapproval, but he knew he was right. It wasn’t sensible in the first place, making such frequent visits. 

 

“I swear to God, if we were in America, we could spend so much more time together. People wouldn’t care…”

He kept saying it, he knew he sounded like a broken record, but it was the only thing on his mind. “People always care, Pete.”

“I think you’d be surprised…”

“I think you have too much faith in what’s legal and not enough knowledge of people.” Pete couldn’t help but think how things would be different back home. There were bars for queers, safe spaces for them to meet. Even here, the younger generation didn’t seem to mind too much. So what if it wasn’t legal? It wasn’t legal to smuggle bags of apples into East Berlin, even if Pete doubted it would be stamped as a major crime.

It was all a passing fantasy. Patrick would never get permission to travel to America, never, there was no way he would ever get there without first leaving the GDR for good and that was a risk of its own.

“Do you think you’ll get the Visa?” 

 

Patrick shrugged. The lack of a definite affirmation made Pete feel too uncomfortable. “I mean I’ll just… not come back.”

“And what if they come for you? What if they drag you back here?”

“Dude, I know they’ve been acting weird lately, but come on, as if they’d really ask for a dude and his guitar back from the big, bad Americans.” Pete knew the Soviets. If there was one thing they didn’t mess with, it was border controls. He hadn’t told Patrick about the rumours, he didn’t want to worry him. That was, if he hadn’t already heard them himself. They’d been spoken out now, given life and despite his answer, Pete didn’t trust Ulbricht as far as he could throw him.

Pete wished he could kiss Patrick goodbye by his door, like the girls at the station did when the soldiers left home. Why was it okay for them when he and Patrick had to settle for a formal handshake?

 

The soldiers by the border always gave him odd looks, he sometimes wondered if they recognized him yet. Though that might all be in his head, after all, Allied soldiers could come and go as they pleased and did so all the time… he was probably imagining it.

The thing about Pete was that he didn’t understand Germany. He thought he did, he thought living with other Americans in a German city meant he got it, but he really had no clue. Trying to explain to him that the Soviets gave less of a shit about gays than the West did was all but pointless, in the American’s eyes, anything Russian was evil, even if they weren’t aware of it. And yeah, Patrick really resented the fact that his flat just happened to be on the wrong side of that fucking border, but his job as an  _ artist _ allowed him to travel with a little less trouble than most and honestly, the worst thing in the East was the fucking Klub Kola which tasted like horse piss. He missed Coca-Cola. Good, honest, American Coke. they always got pissy when he tried to bring that over the border, though. 

“Papiere!” the harsh command made Patrick fish out his passport littered with little, red stamps. He really needed a new one, but if he wanted that apartment in Neukölln he couldn’t afford any additional expenses right now… it always took so long, it was like the soldiers were making a point just because they could, it was ridiculous, there might be a fucking border running through the middle of a city, but there was free travel, always had been and Patrick really didn’t have time for this. He held his silence, though, and patiently waited for the guy with the trodden-in face to hand back the passport with a glare before letting him past.

_ Zur Pickelhaube _ was a smoky little bar in Kreuzberg, about half an hour from the border. Patrick played there once in a while to help out Maria’s little business, according to her he always brought in plenty of customers, though he suspected that was a lie and she just wanted to get him to visit and work was pretty much the only way.

“Patrick! Wie geht’s?” Maria was a short, fat woman with long, black hair and a friendly face, all complete with a bone-crushing hug that took all air from his lungs. “Alles gut, wie läuft’s? Gutes Geschäft?” Maria smiled at him warmly and immediately pulled him a beer. Dark, of course, he had a very specific love for dark beers. “Alles in Ordnung bei dir? Isst du gut?”

„Klar, alles bestens, mach dir keine Sorgen.“ She didn’t show it, but she was so very worried about her little cousin living all on his own in the Soviet sector. Patrick sometimes wondered if it looked worse from the outside than it actually was. His whole family lived in the West, at least the ones he knew of. Maria, obviously, had her pub and flat here in Kreuzberg, her brother Julian was over in Spandau with his wife and kids. Patrick’s mother was sulking away in a flat somewhere in Wedding with his sister looking after her. Not that he had much contact with either of them, he suspected they resented the fact that he’d lived to see the end of the war when his dad and brother… well, it wasn’t his fault that the damn thing went and ended before he got drafted, was it?

„Hast du die Blumen bekommen?“ Patrick couldn’t help but roll his eyes. Yes. The flowers. “Ja, aber bitte… das ist ‘ne sau blöde Idee. Wenn die da draufkommen….“

„Dann was? Was würden die tun? Sind nur Blumen.“

„Blumen von ‘nem Ammi“, he scowled into his drink. God, they had no clue about the East, did they? He couldn’t just be receiving flowers from an American soldier… “Wissen die doch nicht. Hast du ihn gesehen? War er heute da?“ He appreciated her support, Patrick was fully aware it was something he couldn’t take for granted. Admittedly, the person who would be the most fucked in this specific worst-case-scenario was him, not like the Americans would care much if Pete was sending his sweetheart in the East flowers, on the contrary, it would probably be made into a book or maybe even a movie, but Patrick didn’t fancy having the Stasi on his heels,

„Letzte Woche.“ Wow, had it really been a week since he’d last seen Pete?

„Ihr seid süß, ihr zwei.“ Cute. Patrick didn’t much enjoy being cute. „Was spielst du denn heute?” He shrugged, „mal schauen wer kommt… vielleicht mach ich was englisches. Im Osten kann ich keine amerikanischen Lieder spielen, muss die Chance mal nutzen. Vielleicht sing ich ein Schandlied auf die Genossenschaft!“ He raised his glass in a mock toast and was immediately slapped across the head by his lovely cousin. “Sag sowas nicht! Bevor du’s weißt, bist du der nächste, der verschwindet.“ Yes, the disappearances. People being dragged out of their houses in the dead of night… It was all terribly scary and not something Patrick had ever witnessed so he chose not to believe it. “Lass die. Bis Oktober spätestens bin ich eh raus.” Two more months. He could manage two more months. It really wasn’t that bad.

He didn’t sing any songs about the GDR, but he did get in some Elvis and a bit of Ray Charles, which made the soldiers in the bar very happy and that, in turn, made his cousin very happy because happy Americans drank more than they could handle, which meant once they were off their heads, they didn’t stop pouring down cheap Schnaps like it was water. The best thing – of course – was the curly-haired man lingering in the corner with a blinding grin spread across his face.

Once his set had finished and he’d been handed another beer, Patrick wandered over to the guy waiting for him, tattooed arms crossed patiently. “How was I?”

 

“Amazing, as always.” It was definitely the alcohol that made Patrick wink suggestively. 

 

“How much have you had to drink?” Pete was amused, clearly, his own unfinished American piss clutched in his hand. 

 

“Dunno. Maria kept giving them to me. Didn’t count. Her fault. I wish I could kiss you.” The warm chuckle he received for his comment tugged at his heartstrings. 

 

“Y’know you might as well if you’re gonna talk about it so everyone can hear?” He was so pretty with his big, brown eyes and his fucking movie-poster grin.

 

“Mmh, might I?” Pete kept chuckling at him, little giggles that shook his body and lifted his shoulders. Patrick could hear his future-self already telling him off for so unsubtly staring at Pete like he was the fucking sun, it wasn’t really much of a surprise when Pete leaned forward just enough to brush their lips together in the briefest of kisses. Thankfully, Patrick’s brain was still so functional that he didn’t follow him for more.

“Will you come back with me tonight? Please?” There it was again, that kind, warm laugh. Patrick nestled into Pete’s chest, hoping the darkness of the little corner was enough to conceal them. 

 

“Don’t you think they might notice if I crossed the border with you and followed you home and  _ then _ stayed the night?” It was wishful thinking, obviously, but Patrick still grumbled. He just wanted to fall asleep next to Pete, just once more. It must have been two years since they’d last taken that risk. Not that anybody gave a rat’s arse about that sort of thing then. Not that anybody gave a rat’s arse about that sort of thing  _ now _ , but still… there was something uneasy settling over Berlin, Patrick could feel it, and the Americans were as much a part of that as the Soviets.

“When you have to be back by?” Patrick turned towards the sound of Maria’s broken English. She tried her best and it was already a lot better than it had been. 

 

“Tomorrow morning.”

“You can stay for the night here, I’ve got vacancy right now. You too, if you will.” Patrick nodded, cheek still pressed against Pete’s chest. “Thank you”, he yawned. 

 

“You should probably go to bed…”

“Only if you go with me… please, I don’t wanna be alone…” Pete sighed heavily and looked over to Maria still standing between them and the crowd. “Can you take him to bed? I’ll be up in an hour or two when this lot is too drunk to realize.” Patrick felt his arm being slung across someone’s shoulder and – oh – he was kinda drunk… stairs… not stairs, okay, he could do stairs, one at a time, oh, no, Maria was doing it normally, okay, left foot, right foot, left… fuck, no, higher, god, there were so many left still… 

 

“Reiß dich zusammen!”

He was literally dropped onto the bed, he felt his cousin slip his shoes off his feet and tuck him in beneath a thin blanket. The room did not stop swaying, it was like he was on a boat. Not that he’d been on a boat recently… how long had it been since he’d set foot on a boat? Must be 20 years now. No, 1941 he wouldn’t have been on a boat. Must have been later. Or earlier? Had his dad been with them? He couldn’t really remember his dad, he’d only been 8 when he’d left. Obviously, he had some childhood memories, but things like his laugh, the sound of his voice, the feeling of being in his arms, those were things that might as well have never happened. It was okay, Patrick didn’t really miss him, he missed the idea of having a father, but not  _ his father _ . 

 

He did miss his brother, he remembered his brother, drafted in ‘43… just two more years and he’d have been fine. It was rather frustrating, he understood why his mother resented the fact that the sick kid got to stay at home whilst her husband and poster-boy son had to die. Not that it was Patrick’s fault. Not that anybody had  _ implied  _ it was Patrick’s fault, just…

He woke with a start when a floorboard near his head creaked. Patrick wasn’t a light sleeper, really, when he was out, he was  _ out _ and not much could wake him, but somehow his sleeping brain had registered the presence of another human in the room. “Shh, just me!” He felt his body relax the second Pete’s hushed voice bled through to him. Pete.

Loud chattering and singing sounded up from downstairs, place your bets on how hungover the American barracks were going to be the next morning, kids.

“You’re still wearing your clothes, baby.” Patrick groaned his response as Pete started to unbuckle his belt. His head fucking  _ hurt _ , fuck! “Ass up!” Patrick did as he was told and kicked at the trousers Pete tugged off his legs until they flew across the room and hit the wall somewhere. “Shirt, too?”

 

“Mmmh.”

 

“Is that a mmmh yes or a mmmh no?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Alright, sit up.” Suddenly it was much more of a mmmh no, but Pete had already tugged the t-shirt up to underneath his armpits. Patrick heaved himself upwards just long enough for the t-shirt to be whipped over his head and dropped to the floor beside him. He was a lot more comfortable now without the sweaty cotton clinging to him and before he knew it, another body was pressed up against his back and two arms were wrapped around his middle, pulling him close. It was too hot for cuddling, really, but Patrick didn’t care. “Mmmh… love you.” 

 

Hot air tickled the back of his neck and he could practically feel Pete’s smile against his skin when he replied: “Ich liebe dich auch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, guys, comments and kudos would be rad! Or you can send me anon hate on scmi-sweet on tumblr if that's what makes you happy.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for sticking around, ladz  
> and thans to SnitchesAndTalkers for beta'ing this mess and adding a fucktonne of paragraphs

_ August 9th 1961 _

 

“Literally no offence or anything, but why the fuck is it always the two of us they send over?” 

 

Pete rolled his eyes in a way that might seem exaggerated to anybody who didn’t have to frequently put up with Joe’s complaining, 

 

“Urie hasn’t done shit in over a month, he spends half his time sleeping and the other half at the bar, literally, why do they always send us to do this stuff?” The air was really unpleasant, hot and humid and Pete’s skin was sticky with sweat. There was something else, too, though, something niggling away at Pete’s gut, making him feel uncomfortable, even more so than he usually did on the other side of the border. “I fucking hate this place, man, sent here to fetch and carry like a fucking dog, who do they think I am? Seriously, why can’t they just send a letter by post? Why do they need us to paly messenger, this was not in the job description.”

Pete didn’t hate the East as much as his brother in arms did. Okay, that might be down to the fact that his fucking  _ boyfriend  _ lived here and that big portions of his life now were spent roaming the streets lined with dull, grey tower-blocks. Maybe he was just used to it. It wasn’t pretty, that much was for sure, but then again, the Soviets did get the oldest part of the city and all its landmarks (or rather, what remained of them after the war, which wasn’t much), so that was a bonus. 

 

“I don’t understand why you come here so often, Pete, honestly, it’s fucking ugly…” Pete’s reply consisted of a simple shrug, he wasn’t willing to do much else. “See, we all think you have a sweetheart over here.”

 

He tried so hard not to let his shock show, oh God, he really did, but the way Pete’s body froze was an automated reaction, not something he could help in that split second after Joe dropped the bombshell. 

 

“Aha! So you do! What’s her name?” He fixed his eyes on nothing particular in the distance, pretending that that undefinable bit of grey wall was the most interesting thing for miles around and that Trohman and his dumb questions didn’t exist. “Oh come on,” he dropped his voice to a low hush, “tell me. Come on. Nobody’s here to hear!” what would be worse, the Russians hearing about Patrick fucking an American or Joe’s pestering? Pete threw a cautious glance over his shoulder and – with nobody there to overhear them – decided on the latter.

“Patrizia.” Patrizia. Nice white lie there, Pete. 

 

“Yes, okay, and? Is she hot? Come on, dude, tell me you have a hot secret girlfriend.” Pete considered it for a moment, should he tell joe any more? But then again, any damage that could be done already had… what was the harm in giving his imagination something to work with? 

 

“Yeah, man, really hot. Blonde. Blue eyes.”

 

“Tall?”

 

“No, short. Very short.”

 

“Hm, I prefer tall… must have quite some… assets.” Oh, he did. Pete just wasn’t sure if Patrick’s  _ assets _ were of the sort Joe had in mind. “Mmh, definitely.” Joe was eating this shit right up. “Dude, this is like the plot to a bad movie. Forbidden love or some shit, how often do you see her?”

 

“More often than you’d think.” Joe looked around like a kid about to steal sweets before dropping back into the low whisper. “You ever… yanno?” 

 

No, Pete did not know. It was glaringly obvious that Joe was still young, quite a bit younger than himself, the way he talked about girls and their  _ assets _ and was tip-toeing around a conversation he was obviously burning to have. “Have I ever what Joe?” 

 

He went bright red behind his beard. Honestly, it wasn’t very fair that he could grow a full beard at 25 when Pete had barely managed stubble at his age. It had taken him until he’d been 29 to grow decent facial hair. He wondered if Patrick could grow a beard.

 

“You ever… fucked her?” Ah, of course that was where this was going. Pete’s only reply was a cheeky wink that reddened the lad’s face even more. “Oh, wow, I… I’m jealous, dude, whilst we’re all sleeping in hard bunks you’re off fucking hot girls all night… how did you manage that?”

 

“Oh, it’s… h- she ran into me a while back and-“

“Hey! Stehen bleiben!” God. Pete really couldn’t be done with this right now. Spot-checks that were never spot-checks. He put on his politest smile as he turned to the German shouting for them to stop. 

 

“Gibt es ein Problem?” he asked in his best German accent that wasn’t very good. “Was machen Sie hier?”

 

“Oh, wir… sind nur hier um einen Brief abzugeben. Sind gleich wieder weg.“ The soldier inspected them doubtfully, like he didn’t trust a word from Pete’s mouth. Smart man. “Kann ich eure Papiere sehen?” Pete suppressed an annoyed sigh. Always the Germans and their paperwork, it was insufferable, honestly. However, he didn’t kick up a fuss as he handed them over with that sweet smile still on his lips.

Joe shuffled about nervously as the German took his fucking sweet time checking and re-checking their passports, never wiping that look off his face that might be mistaken as contempt, but Pete knew to be fear. They were all scared, really, in the same way the Americans and the British and the French and the Germans in the west were. If shit hit the fan, they’d be the first to know. And nobody enjoyed standing against their own countrymen, even if they were lucky enough to be living in the right part of the city.

“Alles in Ordnung?” Pete asked when the guy finally handed back their papers. Of course it was, were it not, they’d be in handcuffs or something, Pete wasn’t really sure what the exact procedure was and he wasn’t burning to find out, either. The man nodded sharply and added, just as Pete wanted to say his goodbyes and be on his way: “Be quick, go back soon.” Which… yeah, Pete would. That was the plan. Unless he changed his mind on the way and headed out to Lichtenberg instead of back to Kreuzberg. Maybe, he’d think about it.

“I really fucking hate it when they speak German. Why can’t they just speak English like everybody else? No fuckin’ clue what he wanted.” Joe. Always the complainer. 

 

“Dude, we  _ are _ in Germany, like, you can kinda let him speak his own language in his own country.” All Joe did was scoff. Unsurprising, really, he was a scoffy sort of person. 

 

“Fucking Germans, I swear to God…”

Honestly, Pete didn’t know why the damn thing couldn’t just be sent by mail, he suspected this was his punishment for consistently being 12 minutes late to everything (a reputation he had earned and worked hard to maintain, thank you very much) and Joe, well, truth was anybody was glad to get him out of the barracks for as long as possible, partly down to his complaining, partly down to his rather strong body odour. Pete liked him, though. Not too many people did because if you didn’t know him, he came off as the grumpiest, most stuck-up person in the entire world, but he was a caring, loyal friend and had a truly kind heart and an unfaltering sense of justice.

Joe Trohman was a good guy with a big mouth.

“You stopping off on the way?” the big mouth asked on their way back. 

 

They were on the Straßenbahn heading back towards Friedrichshain. Pete could just hop off early, Patrick’s flat wasn’t too much of a walk from the stop… it was tempting, he hadn’t seen him since he’d been over in the West that time. 

 

“Yeah, think I might?” Pete nervously glanced around when Joe winked at him knowingly. Sure, it was fine if  _ Joe  _ thought he was seeing some East-German girl, but it wasn’t so fine if any bigwig Soviet found out about their relationship. They may act like they didn’t pay any attention to their civilians, but everybody knew that they were paranoid about anything that began with A and ended with merica. And that included anybody who might be  _ affiliated _ . Nobody seemed to be paying him and Joe any attention, though.

He waved Joe goodbye and slipped off the train at Ostkreuz, weaving his way through people and traffic rather than switching trains until he reached the building in Geusnerstraße, the one he’d become so very accustomed to. He’d spent hours looking out of that window on the third floor, watching the street late at night as Patrick slept calmly an arm’s length away. Pete had never been a particularly good sleeper.

He wondered if the neighbours recognised him. If so, he wondered what they thought of him. 

The front door was never locked. Somewhat unsurprising really, locked doors in apartment buildings weren’t particularly practical when it came to visitors and the post and unexpected visits by the Stasi, so Pete just kicked it open. He never took the lift, he could just about manage the three floors that led to the battered wooden door that must have seen countless tenants and landlords come and go. Pete wondered if Patrick really had been the best one yet, he couldn’t really imagine anything else.

He had a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth when he answered the door and was wearing the expression of a startled puppy, messy hair and all. Petr’s heart fluttered like he was a teenage boy at prom. “Hi!”

 

“I wssn spiiin uu eee” he mumbled through a mouthful of foam. 

 

“What? I didn’t quite….” A hand clamped around Pete’s shoulder and dragged him into the flat, the door slammed shut behind him. Patrick disappeared for a brief while and when he wandered back out of the bathroom, his mouth was empty, if lined with white, and he’d lost the toothbrush. He looked so fucking cute. 

 

“I said I wasn’t expecting you here.”

 

“Are you ever expecting me?” There was a contemplative pause before Patrick shrugged and made his way into the cramped little living room, Pete following right behind him.

It was an untidy little flat, what little space Patrick had was filled with books and vinyl and just general mess, mainly consisting of socks and dishes that should have been washed a day or two ago. Pete liked it, it felt like home.

They settled on the couch that was way comfier than it looked, Patrick’s feet in Pete’s lap as he cut his fingernails. Pete was absent-mindedly massaging his calves as best he could from the wrong side of his leg. “I miss good TV,” Patrick commented, “like, lots of programs and stuff. All I can watch is the news and I guess I can read my old books, but I know them all by heart.”

 

“I’ll bring you some new ones next time I come.”

 

“Make it soon, please, I’m going out of my mind.” He scrunched up the tissue he’d been using to catch the clipping and dumped it on the coffee table “for now”, then twizzled round so his head was lying in Pete’s lap. This was the nicer end, the American decided as he stroked through messy blonde hair that was already thinning like Patrick was 40 rather than 30. God, they were so old. 30 and 33. What a pair of old men. 

 

“How’s things?”

 

“Y’know. Same old, nothing exciting…”

 

“I’m jealous.”

 

“What, of same old, nothing exciting?”

 

“Better than being stopped by the police four times a day.”

 

Pete’s hand faltered in its movement and may have tightened its grip, going by Patrick’s  _ au! _ Was this normal? He didn’t think so… he didn’t get stopped four times… then again, he had been stopped earlier and usually that never happened. Well, it did on the off-days but… was it coincidence? “Have they… is it me or have theri ‘spot-checks’ become more frequent?” 

 

Patrick faltered for a second but, probably knowing his pause had given him away, eventually nodded. It made Pete’s gut clench painfully. He wanted to say something, comforting words and reassurance, but it would all be meaningless, and Patrick knew that. He lived it, for God’s sake, so he kept his silence and pressed a kiss to the German’s forehead, to his nose, to his lips. 

 

“You smell nice,” Pete commented, blue eyes inches away from his face so he could see galaxies swirling in them. Good God, love made him a sappy shit. 

 

“I just brushed my teeth,” Patrick shrugged.

“No, I mean…” Pete nuzzled against his lover’s throat and into his collar, inhaling the familiar but slightly off smell until it was clouding his brain. 

 

“You’re weird as fuck,“ Patrick muttered under his breath.

 

“Says the guy who never takes off his socks!”

 

“Bare feet feel funny, okay? I don’t like it…” Pete ruffled through the soft mop of hair, making Patrick pull a displeased face as his toes curled. He was so very strange. Pete was about to tell him about the soldier who’d asked him for his papers – it wouldn’t leave him alone, it put him in the kind of discomfort that niggles away at you for days and days like a rat gradually eating out your insides – when Patrick looked him dead in the eye and simply said, “sex?” and he certainly wasn’t going to say no to that. 

 

“Mmh, sounds good…” Pete bent forward again, catching Patrick’s lips in a kiss that was soft, but held the promise of something more. “Anything specific you had in mind?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You know, you really should let me cook, I never do anything for you and-“ All Patrick could do at this point was roll his eyes and fry his onions. Onion. He didn’t have enough to make multiple. 

 

“Shut up, Pete.”

 

“But-”

 

“Shut up.” He knew his boyfriend was sticking his tongue out at him and it made him smile, glad that Pete couldn’t see it from behind. 

 

“What’re you making, anyway?”

 

“Rostbraten.” There followed a spluttered cough that would have made Patrick spin around in alarm if he didn’t feel like choking on thin air himself at the thought of offering meat, fucking  _ meat _ to somebody else. Okay, that may be an exaggeration, it wasn’t 16 th -century France, after all, meat was almost as available as anything else, but it was fucking hard to come by, he had to get it from over in Kreuzberg along with the nice apples. 

 

“Don’t waste your meat on me, dude, really.” The double-entendre of that sentence made Patrick snort, he couldn’t help it, and gave Pete a great opportunity to mock his maturity, which was kinda rich, really, coming from him of all people, the guy who laughed at anything shaped vaguely like a penis, including, but not limited to, actual penises.

“I don’t deserve you.”Patrick flipped his potatoes. Pete said these things, he always had done. Patrick had run out of ways to tell him not to. “I love you like crazy, you know?” 

 

Strong arms wound their way around Patrick’s waist and a small smile graced his lips when he felt the scratch of a beard against his face. “I know,” he muttered and smacked a kiss against Pete’s cheek. “Now be a babe and go set the table or I’ll eat this by myself and make you watch.” 

 

There was not a second’s hesitation before Pete went haring off towards the cabinet that held Patrick’s ancient crockery. What a little kid he was. Patrick’s heart felt all warm and fuzzy.

“Okay, but dogs are better than cats, you can fucking fight me on that.”

 

“I’m not fighting you, Pete, I agree…”

 

“No but like they’re loyal and intelligent and like your best buddy, they wouldn’t just abandon you, ever! If you died near your cat, it would eat your corpse, you know it.” 

 

Patrick sighed pointedly. Ten minutes. This not-discussion had been going on for ten. Minutes. “Yes, I know, Pete, I agree, dogs are better, I love dogs, I do, even if I had a cat…”

 

“So you see that you should get a dog, then?” ugh. This again. Yes, Pete really was a 12-year-old. Maybe even younger right now, more like five. 

 

“You know I can’t get a dog! I don’t have time or space.” It was wishful thinking. Patrick  _ knew _ his boyfriend wanted a dog, he  _ knew _ , but just because Pete wasn’t allowed to keep one didn’t mean Patrick would be the one to look after what would effectively be Pete’s pet. Not that he didn’t want a dog, but he was certainly more realistic about the practicalities of having one.“I can’t have a dog, Pete. I just can’t! I can’t afford it, I don’t have room or time, like, what about when I’m touring?” 

 

Okay,  _ touring _ was a generous term, but Patrick did frequently spend several weeks away from home, playing clubs and bars and anywhere that would pay him. He couldn’t keep a dog. But Pete’s disappointed expression did break his heart enough for him to reach over the table so he could gently take his hand. He let his thumb softly stroke over Pete’s knuckle as he tried to find consoling words. “One day, yeah? When I’m over in Neukölln, we’ll get a dog.” 

 

Pete perked up a little at that, offered him a warm smile, at least. He was so beautiful, Patrick wanted to cry. He remembered how his heart had hammered in his chest when the American soldier he’d run into turned around to reveal  _ that face _ and his tongue had turned to lead in his mouth. He’d then proceeded to apologize a million times, simply because repeating  _ sorry, sorry, sorry, _ was better than blurting out  _ fuck, you’re beautiful _ . The other five times it had happened may or may not have been a little less accidental.

It was then that Pete dropped the first bombshell.

“Do you think we can ever live together?” Patrick’s grip on Pete’s hand tightened just by a fraction, but enough for it to provoke a reaction. Pete looked up at him with big, sad eyes that tore cracks through Patrick’s heart. Fuck, he wanted to, he wanted that so badly. He wanted to be able to wake up next to Pete every morning for the rest of his life, then get up and make him breakfast as he washed. He wanted to kiss him goodbye when he left for work and know that when he came home, Pete would be there waiting for him. Or maybe not, maybe he’d be out shopping or meeting friends or working himself, but he’d come back later in the day and they’d go to bed together and fall asleep next to each other every day for the rest of their lives and thinking about it  _ hurt _ so badly because it was so far from real. Even if Patrick did move to the West, Pete would still be in the army and… well, what if he left the army? Would he be sent right back to America? Or would they just let him stay? Patrick doubted the latter.

Still, he smiled. It was a sad little smile, but a smile nonetheless. “We can hope.” Yes. Hope. There was always that. Pete flipped over his hand so it was laying in his own, palm facing upwards, and began tracing light patterns over white skin. Patrick barely felt it. 

 

“You know… I’ve been thinking, like… if you were a chick, I’d have put a ring on your finger and a baby in your tummy a long time ago…”

Bombshell number two. Patrick felt dizzy. Okay, the baby thing was a little weird, but what Pete was suggesting, what he was  _ saying _ , was making his head spin and the butterflies in his belly flutter ridiculously. Oh, he felt the same. Honestly, he’d known Pete felt this way for a while, it wasn’t like he’d ever doubted just how loved he was, but hearing it… Patrick was amazed he could come up with an answer at all. 

 

“Or maybe you could be the girl and I’d have done the same to you…” There was a promise there, something profound and unspoken. Something that could not be spoken, a bond that was so much stronger than words, one that cemented when hot, whiskey eyes found golden-blue ones. “I love you so much, Pete… and… I kinda wish I was a girl sometimes just… just so we…”

“Shh, no, don’t,” Pete’s voice was soft and soothing. He was so kind. The best person Patrick knew, kind and caring and good. He didn’t deserve him. “I don’t want you to be anybody else. Ever. I love you, Patrick, I’ve… I’ve never loved anybody like this, you’re my special person and I love you and I don’t care if you’re a man or a wo- oh God, please, no, don’t cry, I’m…” 

 

Yeah, too late. Patrick was crying. He was trying not to, but the butterflies had become too much. He sniffed pathetically, rubbing at his watery eyes with the palm of his hand. He knew Pete loved him, this was stupid, why was he crying? He wasn’t a fucking kid, he shouldn’t be crying, certainly not about something happy!

“S-sorry, I just… I… sorry, I shouldn’t be… I just, I… I wanna be with you so bad, I wanna… wanna…” a loud sniff made him look up to see Pete, too, was tearing up. He’d made Pete cry. Oh God… “Oh, stop, you’re… you’re setting me off, you bastard!” but there was a smile on his lips and a glow in his eyes as he wiped at them.

And then the third bombshell. Patrick reached out for Pete when he got up and walked around the little table, thinking he was just coming for a hug, a nice, squish, warm hug, just the type Patrick needed right now.

 

But then he sunk to the floor in front of him and Patrick was confused, arms hovering in thin air as he blankly stared down at his boyfriend.

His boyfriend.

In front of him.

On one knee.

Patrick pressed a hand to his mouth to suppress an ugly sob when the pieces slid into place.

 

“Uh… I know we can’t get properly married or anything, but… like… will… would you like us to spend the rest of our lives together? Maybe? No pr-”

Patrick put his hands on Pete’s shoulders and dragged him forward into a kiss, mainly because his mouth couldn’t put together any words. It was lingering, intense, Patrick’s insides were burning with the desperation of needing more when there was no way of getting it. He wanted to be a part of Pete, forever and always, the way their tongues clashed and Patrick’s hand carding through Pete’s close-shorn curls again and again the only proof of that he could offer. For now.

It was Pete who pulled away, only barely, eyes big and wet and full of questions. It confused Patrick for the briefest of seconds. “Yes! Yes, I… of course, yes, I do, I love you.” The smile glowed on Pete’s face, stretching practically from ear to ear, making his eyes crinkle in their corners. He was so beautiful, Patrick could cry. Scratch that, Patrick  _ was _ crying. 

 

“I uh… don’t have like… a ring? Or anything, but…” he reached for the clasp on his watch and Patrick wanted to stop him, knew he should, but the thought of having a part of Pete with him, always, having that promise on him wasn’t something he could turn down. He held out his wrist and Pete closed the catch around it, just a little too loose for it to stay in place but not so loose it would fall off.

His part of Pete.

“I don’t… have anything for you.”

“That’s okay,” Pete shrugged, trying to cover up the tears turning his eyes red by acting all casual, “just get me a dog one day and we’re quit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope that wasn't too cheesy, hah...  
> comments and kudos are always, always, always appreciated, you can yell at me on tumblr over on scmi-sweet


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the end.
> 
> Comments and kudos are always, always appreciated. Thanks a million to SnitchesAndTalkers for beta'ing this mess.

_ August 13 _ _ th _ _ 1961 _

Impulse. That was what it had been, just impulse. A dumb decision in a split second that should have gone another way. Of course nobody blamed him for it, how could they? Anybody would have done the same, yet that was the exact problem. He wasn’t supposed to be anybody. He was supposed to be Patrick’s.

“It is okay”, her English wasn’t really getting any better, still broken, still accented. Still better than Pete’s German. “It is fine, don’t worry, he knows how look after him.” The tea in his hands was getting colder every second. He could see the worry in Maria’s face. He could see the worry on in everybody’s faces. Nobody knew what was going on and everybody was worried. And Pete had run and not looked back once.

He wanted to offer comforting words, after all Patrick was family to her, too, but all he could do was stare into the swirling black inside the mug clasped in his hands. It was cold now, the once scorching liquid going to waste between his fingers because all he could do was stare and think about the wire. The barbed wire that had snagged the hem of his trousers. There was a little tear in them now. He didn’t want to imagine what it did to human flesh.

“He will be good, yes? We do not know what they do, it might be nothing.” It wasn’t nothing. It didn’t look like nothing. It didn’t  _ feel  _ like nothing.  _ Nothing  _ didn’t involve barbed wire.

Pete couldn’t bring himself to say it, but in that moment, the door to the bar swung open to reveal none other than the laziest shit on the planet, Brendon Urie himself, confirming Pete’s worst fear.

“They’re fortifying the border! Those fucks, they put up barbed wire in the middle of the night and now they’re not letting anybody through!”

_ They’re not letting anybody through. _ Pete felt sick. “Dude, you need to come right now, like…  _ right _ now, nobody knows what the fuck is going on and… fuck, if this starts a war and you’re getting drunk, I swear, Wentz!”

War? Pete hadn’t even thought about that. It was like he’d forgotten the arms race and the Bay of Pigs. But if war broke out, he couldn’t fight. Not when Patrick was on the other side.

Despite wanting nothing less, Pete felt himself being heaved onto his legs but just as he was about to finally lose it and yell at Urie, he was met with sad, blue eyes. It was Maria helping him to his feet, dragging him to the door and shoving him outside, it was Maria who took his hand and led him through the crowds of people collecting by the border, it was Maria who yelled at the man who nearly threw a brick at them. They were rioting. The people were rioting. There was no way in hell this would go through, the Soviets would be torn apart before they got started properly! The people didn’t want this, they’d fight against it and-

Only the West.

Somehow, they reached the wire stretching across the once-open street. They’d just cut off the bridge. The Oberbaumbrücke, the one Pete had traversed so many times, he knew countless people who walked over it on their way to work, he’d spent hours leaning against the railing watching the river. He’d run into Patrick here once, years ago, back when he was just a stranger with a bag of apples…

Now it had barbed wire running across it.

There was an old man to his left, he was crying. Men never cried, not in public, Pete always made sure to hide away in a corner or under a blanket or walk as far away from anybody as he could, men just didn’t cry. This man was crying and he wasn’t trying to hide it.

There were people on the other side, Pete could make out a crowd behind the line of soldiers making sure nobody set foot on the bridge. Was Patrick there? Was he in that crowd? Why weren’t they angry? People on this side were screaming, throwing anything they could get their hands on over the fence, crying, yelling, they were  _ angry _ , but the East… they were still. Just stood, facing the rifles and the wire, looking over to friends and family and lovers too far away to touch. Why weren’t they rioting? If they protested, if they just walked against the soldiers, many of whom were German themselves, then they didn’t stand a chance! How many people could they realistically take down before the mob overwhelmed them?

And then Pete had an image of Patrick, his Patrick, at the front, shouting and fighting and trying to get over the wire until one of the guards lost their calm or their patience or their temper and pulled the trigger. And then Pete understood.

“I can’t fucking believe they’re doing this.” Pete hadn’t noticed Joe, but his voice, even though it was laced with malice, was a welcome familiarity. He liked Joe.

“What the fuck are they thinking? This is crazy, they could start World War III with that wire. What the fuck are they thinking?” The only thing Pete was thinking was that Patrick was all alone now. He was on the other side of that border, with no friends, no family. No Pete.

 

 

 

Everywhere there were people crying. It wasn’t surprising, really, given the circumstances, the fear consuming everybody. This could be the beginning of the end, tension was high, blood-pressure higher, pumping through everybody’s veins and throbbing in their ears. Patrick was no exception there. The first thing he’d done when he’d heard of the fence from his neighbour had been to run to Oberbaumbrücke with a packed bag in the hope of getting across just in time, but it had already been sealed off. Not seeing much point in standing and waiting for war to break out, he’d started running, not quite sure where to, he just ran and ran all the way along the border, waiting for a hole in security, waiting for somebody to let him cross, waiting for his chance to jump the fence, waiting to be shot in the back.

It wasn’t chaos and that was maybe the most disturbing thing. Everybody was scared, scared enough to cry, not scared enough to face PPSh-41s. he didn’t blame them. He made it all the way to Köpenicker Straße before his lungs threatened to give out. He stopped, hands braced on his knees, trying desperately to catch his breath, the tears blurring his vision due to the way every muscle in his body burned. At least that was what he told himself as he gasped for air. He knew it wasn’t true. That wasn’t the reason his lip was trembling and his cheeks were damp.

He wasn’t getting over that fence.

It was a lot closer here, he could walk almost right up to it, the only thing between him and the wire was a line of soldiers, their backs turned to him, watching people on the other side. Americans. There were so many of them, armed and poised, ready to shoot if they had to. Patrick recognized some of them, they were regulars at the  _ Pickelhaube _ , men he’d sung to as they got drunk off plastic beer and bad Schnaps. Would they shoot him? Somehow it seemed like a less likely scenario than one of the Eastern soldiers burying a bullet in his heart.

There was a crowd behind them, angry, loud,  _ they _ were rioting,  _ they _ were protesting, safe behind their wall of soldiers that were there to protect them, not lock them in and shoot them like fish in a barrel. Patrick envied them and the courage they didn’t need.

“PATRICK!”  _ Maria _ . His head spun, eyes scanning the crowd on the other side, desperately searching for the strawberry blonde hair that would give away his cousin, the glint of blue eyes that looked back at him from the mirror every morning, anything familiar and safe. “MARIA!” He yelled at the top of his broken lungs, frantic and urgent, “MARIA, WO BIST DU?!” He was shoving people out of the way, not paying any attention to anybody else because for once in his life, this was about him, for once in his life, he was going to be as selfish as he needed to.

And then he saw her. He saw him. He couldn’t stop the tears as he pressed a hand to his mouth to muffle the sob. He was right there, uniform loosely hanging off his shoulders, but no helmet to cover his curls, to protect him from a stray bullet or stone. He was sporting a beard. A scraggly, black beard. It looked cute, really cute. Patrick wanted to stroke his hands over it, feel it below his palms, his lips, against his cheek…

He was so close, barely 20 feet away, so incredibly close… the expression on his face nearly broke Patrick, his eyes were red and his chest was shaking, like he was struggling as much as the German to hold back the hurt. Neither of them said a word.

 

Maria was waving, waving goodbye, certainly. Goodbye. Was this goodbye? Would he ever see his family again?

Patrick knew this feeling, he’d had it too many times as a kid, locked up in his room, under his sheets, hiding from the world, from everybody. It felt like his father leaving in 1940, it felt like his brother following him three years later, it felt like April 16 th 1945, when he had cowered in his mother’s cellar, crying like a little girl because the Red Army had come to take his home. He’d tried justifying it, reminding himself he’d not even been 14 yet, he was just a scared little boy, but still. His mother and sister were women. They’d been brave. They hadn’t hidden. Patrick had never found out what the Soviets had done to them, if they’d done anything. He’d never asked. He didn’t want to know.

Pete had asked him once if he’d seen Hitler. “Of course I have”, Patrick had answered, “I was 5 or 6, I barely remember, but I have.” His eyes had grown huge and bulging, full of shock and maybe wonder he didn’t want to admit to. It was like he’d forgotten what had let him rise to power in the first place: Undeniable charisma. The guy had been a despicable human, not worth the air he’d wasted, but he could talk and he knew he needed to be seen. Patrick had lived in Berlin his whole life. Growing up in Berlin in the 30s, well, there was hardly a person in his position who hadn’t seen the Führer.

“How was he?” Pete had asked and Patrick had shrugged. 

 

“I don’t remember…”

“How could you not remember the biggest shit stain on humanity?”

The answer had been so simple. “I didn’t know.” Nobody had known. Okay, not nobody, by 1937 there had been signs, people did know, some good, clever, kind people, but not him, not a little boy. He wasn’t the devil with horns growing out of him, there were no fiery pits burning at his feet, there were no corpses dangling from the flagpoles behind him. Patrick hadn’t known what he was capable of, he hadn’t known how great the threat had been.

He knew now. He felt it right down to his bones and in an instant, a dumb, mindless instant, he shoved forward, through the crowd, towards the guards and their guns.

 

He realized his mistake the second he did it and a little too late. Whether it was in the mutter of the crowd behind him, the yell let out by his cousin, the horrified look on his lover’s face or the crack of a rifle smashing into his skull, he did not know, but before he could think about how fucking stupid he was, what a pathetic death he’d resigned himself to, the world went black.

 

 

 

“Sei nicht traurig, ich werd’ jetzt richtiger Soldat!“  _ Don’t be sad. _ Patrick was sad, he couldn’t help it. He tried not to be, he should be happy for Markus, he was finally going to be a proper soldier and fight in the proper war defending his country, but Patrick was too selfish for that. He liked Markus. He was nice to him, always patient and friendly and his hands were so soft and his eyes were so kind. He bit his trembling lip.

“Hey,” Markus put a hand to his cheek and Patrick couldn’t help but lean into it a little, “don’t cry. Remember what I told you?” Patrick nodded. Of course he remembered. He remembered everything Markus had ever told him, he was a very good teacher. “Say it, go on.” Patrick wanted to speak, but he was scared his voice would betray him. “Say it.” He held Patrick’s gaze expectantly, green eyes full of hope and gentle encouragement. He couldn’t let Markus down.  

“Deutsche Jungs weinen nicht.”  _ German boys don’t cry. _ Rule number one. Whatever happens. Crying is for the weak, German boys aren’t weak.

A grin spread across Markus’ face, dimpling his freckled cheeks and Patrick wasn’t quite sure what he was feeling but it scared him. “Deutsche Jungs weinen nicht. Especially not if they’re on posters, right?” He stroked through Patrick’s dirty-blonde hair, ruffling it up and ruining his neat side-parting. He had to be honest, it did make him a little proud. He might not be the strongest boy, but he was truly German, German enough for his picture to be used, for the Reich to acknowledge him.

“Mach’s gut, Patrick!” His heart made a weird sort of flutter when Markus took a step back, black hair elegantly brushed back, save that one strand he just couldn’t get under control. Patrick pushed a stray thought aside hurriedly.  _ No, _ he was not going there  _ again _ . It had just been a mistake, a one-time thing.

By the time he had regained composure, Markus had gone.

 

 

 

Everything was too bright. Patrick screwed his eyes shut the second he’d opened them, intense, glaring light seeping into his brain and burning it in his skull. His skull. Fuck, it hurt so much. Instinctively, he pressed his hand from it, but immediately pulled back when he felt something warm and sticky against his palm. He just about managed to force his eyes open enough to see the blood coating his fingers and groaned loudly.

“Hey, er ist wach!”  _ Loud! _  Too loud. Patrick attempted a glare in the vague direction of whoever had shouted like that, but suspected he failed. He couldn’t even sit up, his arms wouldn’t hold his weight.

“Wo-“ A hand gently pressed against his chest, pushing him back down. “Bleib liegen.” His senses were starting to come back to him and fuck, he wished they would go away again, it  _ hurt _ .

“They knocked you out, you’re bleeding…”

“Where am I?” He was pretty sure he was still lying on a street somewhere.

“Adalbertstraße, we just carried you away from the crowd, are you okay?” Patrick could just about make out broad shoulders and a red-tinged beard.

“My head fucking hurts.”

“I bet it does, can you see?” Patrick blinked, trying to drag the world back into focus. “Kinda? You’re blurry…” The guy – it was a guy – laughed quietly and Patrick felt the same hand that had just pushed him down slide under his back and pull him into a sitting position.

“I’m Andy.” Andy had a pretty high voice, almost comically so when Patrick finally managed to make out the rest of his body: muscularmuscly, manly, intimidating. Until he spoke, that was. 

 

“H- Patrick. I’m… Patrick, what, what happened?”

“They knocked you out. What the hell were you doing? Did you honestly think you could push through?” Seeing as the only thing Patrick felt was confused, he frowned at Andy. “Good grief, what do you remember?” That was… a good question. Patrick rubbed the back of his head as though that would stimulate his memories.

“Uh… Pete. My… friend, Pete he was… there and my cousin I think? I can’t really…” There was something uncomfortable in the silence that settled, something Patrick didn’t like one little bit.

“You… you remember the wire, right?”

Wire… the wire… what wire? That wasn’t particularly specific, was it? What wire the… the…

The barbed wire. The one that had appeared overnight. Patrick remembered his aching legs and burning lungs, he remembered the soldiers, he remembered the crowd on the other side, he remembered Pete,  _ his Pete _ , so very far away. It hurt.

“Where do you live?” Andy’s voice was even more gentle now, Patrick wouldn’t have thought that was possible, but here they were.

 

He couldn’t bring himself to speak up properly. “Lichtenberg.”

“Oh, me too, where exactly? I’ll take you home.” He was carefully being pulled to his feet, his legs moved without being told to. 

 

“Geusnerstraße.”

“Oh, I know where that is, my mother lives there! We’ll get you home, don’t worry.” Patrick was sure Andy meant well. And he could try, boy, he could. But home, his real home, was in West Berlin and there were rifles in the way.

 

 

 

The first thing Pete had done when he’d got to the barracks that night was lock himself in a toilet cubicle and cry. It had been building up all day, from the minute he’d seen what had happened in the last two hours since he’d crossed the border, to when he’d realized what he’d left behind, when he’d seen Maria almost lose her composure – Maria! The strongest person he knew – when he’d seen Patrick, scared and desperate, a packed bag slung over his shoulder, still clinging to the hope of getting across  _ somehow _ . Pete had nearly lost it when he’d watched the guard smack the end of his gun against Patrick’s temple and he’d slumped to the ground like a sack of potatoes, blood staining his golden hair dark red. The bile had risen to Pete’s throat, he’d only just managed to keep it together. Barely. It had taken Maria, Joe and one of the American soldiers he’d run into to hold him back.

For once, not even Patrick’s cousin had tried to stay positive. Fuck, he’d looked so dead. He was so pale anyway, but with the red against his white skin, the way he’d just slumped together, toppled to the ground… fuck, what if he was dead? What if he was dead and Pete had just left him there?

A sob escaped him before he could clench his hand over his mouth. Nobody could hear him cry, nobody. He sat on the closed toilet, hand pressed firmly over his lips, shoulders shaking silently as he prayed nobody was there to hear.

But there was a knock on the door. “Hey, you okay?” Joe. Of course, Joe, who else? He opened his mouth to tell him to go away, go back to his bunk, leave him alone, don’t tell anybody about this and I might speak to you again, but he couldn’t make the words come out.

“I’m sure she’s okay, you know. Like, she’ll be safe.” She. He was so naïve. He’d seen the way Pete had leapt towards the man lying on the ground, held him back, heard his scream. How could he still think Pete was seeing some mysterious girl? “They wouldn’t harm her for no reason, as long as she doesn’t do anything stupid…”

He couldn’t take it anymore, he stood up, swung the door open and didn’t miss Joe’s surprise. Yes, his eyes were red and puffy. Wasn’t his fault, no need to look so taken aback. “Look, man, I’m sure she’s fine…”

“I’m enough reason.” Pete pushed past him to get to the sinks where he filled his cupped hands with icy water and splashed it over his face as if it could wash away the fear. Then he turned back to a very confused-looking Joe.

“I’m the enemy. H- She’s going out with the enemy. I… They’ve been weird for a while, but… God, I don’t…” He wanted to say so much, cry about how scared he was of war breaking out, not for his sake, for Patrick’s. For the fear of meeting him again at the opposite end of a battlefield. 

 

He couldn’t. Girls didn’t go to war.

“I’m sure she’ll be fine…” Joe meant well, Pete knew he did. It just wasn’t helping when all he wanted was in the East and there was barbed wire in the way.

His head was pounding. Patrick couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in so much pain, everything hurt, from the throbbing in his skull to the dull ache snaking around his joints and the stabbing in his back… it was something of a welcome distraction from the places he didn’t want his mind to go, the worry, the fear, the sadness.

 

 

 

It had been 24 hours since he’d been dragged back into his flat by a very kind Andy. He’d promised he’d be back to check on him within a day or two, just to make sure he hadn’t died. Patrick kind of appreciated that. He also kind of wished he’d just been left on the street.

His bag was still packed by the door, as though it was waiting for the right moment. Like leaving was still a viable option. Like there weren’t Soviets positions at every fucking crossing on the border.

24 hours.

The Americans hadn’t reacted yet. Maybe they’d got away with it? Maybe they could just seal off the East completely and nobody would kick up a fuss? Maybe they’d just be left to wither away.

Patrick had un-learned to hate the Russians. It had taken him a lot of time and a lot of effort, but he had tried, for the sake of being good, of being fair and – most importantly – for his own safety.

He was finding it hard not to hate them at that moment.

The fridge was empty. Save a lone lettuce and the jug of water he’d put in there before, there was nothing. The pantry was equally void of decent food, nothing but the cans of beans and a few lonely potatoes plus the last apple he had kept for a bad day. Was today bad enough? Was being knocked out by a Soviet soldier during a final, pathetic attempt to get to his family bad enough to qualify him for the last apple? Patrick figured so.

So he lay on his own on the battered old sofa that was much more comfortable than it looked, TV on loud just so he didn’t feel so alone, but he was staring at the ceiling rather than the flickering screen as he ate his last apple. It wasn’t nice anymore, the crunch had long since go, leaving a rather soggy, tasteless piece of fruit. He finished it anyway. No point in binning it, Patrick didn’t know when he would get his next one. Besides, there was no guarantee he’d get the nice ones again. Best get used to this.

If you asked him, Patrick couldn’t pinpoint when he started crying. It wasn’t like he was lying on the ground sobbing, or like it tore through him suddenly, dragging him in like a riptide until he was drowning, he was just aware of the dampness on his cheeks and the way his eyes hurt every time he blinked, sore and dry. He wasn’t going to think about how he was completely alone, about how he didn’t really have any friends – he’d never been particularly good at keeping them around, too lazy, too busy, too comfortable in his solitude – he didn’t even have colleagues and the only two people he loved, well…

Maybe if he tried to sleep. It would put the world on standby for a little while, just so he could figure things out. And if his mind was kind, maybe it would take him across that barbed wire, into another world in a little flat in Neukölln where the apples were nice and Pete had dinner on the table already, waiting for him to come home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you wanna yell at me personally, my tumblr is scmi-sweet


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello hello
> 
> thank you to snitchesandtalkers for making this story what it is and thanks to everybody still reading and commenting

“Erinnerst du dich an Patrick?“ Patrick. Of course Maria remembered Patrick, her baby cousin. She hadn’t seen him in a while, not since the war had ended, but that didn’t mean she’d forgotten his rosy little cheeks.

She swallowed her mouthful of watered-down soup and it sat, lukewarm, in her stomach. “Ja.”

“Du wirsts nicht glauben, aber die haben sein Gesicht gewählt! Für Plakate!“ Her mother said this as though it was an honour, as though having your face plastered on walls and billboards across the Reich, promoting their values and views, recruiting little kids into their brain-washing hell was something to be proud of. Maria wanted to scowl.

Instead, she smiled. “Ach, schön! Freut mich!” It didn’t please her, not in the slightest but she’d be stupid to let on what she really thought about the Führer and his war. She lived it first-hand, maybe not the way the soldiers on the battlefields did, but she saw their wounds, she heard their screams, she held their hands as they died all alone. Another nameless body, another pile of unclaimed bones. Her family, of course, had no idea. Her father was too old to fight, her sisters worked in the munitions factory and her mother had never worked a day in her life.

“Du solltest ihn mal besuchen gehen, gratulieren. Kannst deiner Tante Grete gleich die Geburtstagskarte vorbeibringen.“ Maria went back to slurping her dinner with no reply. She did not want to congratulate her family for this and she certainly didn’t want to have to visit the Stumphs in the tragedy they called their home. It had changed in the last few years. What had always been a place of safety and comfort to little Maria had turned into something cold and sad, as though the house had turned into a tomb for the souls of their dead men. Just little Patrick survived. Funny, really, the kid nobody thought would live past 5 was the only surviving man of his family.

Maria didn’t hesitate to leave the table the minute her spoon hit her empty bowl. Her mother protested, of course, but she ignored her. She was tired. She needed some air.

Her woollen coat was old and battered, it didn’t keep the cold out anymore but it was better than nothing. Berlin at night had become a scary place but she could handle herself. Most of the strange noises and shadows were just orphaned kids searching for food and men so drunk they couldn’t stand. She couldn’t stop to help, there were too many. Whenever she felt guilty, she reminded herself that she was doing enough. She was giving enough. This war had changed her.

The street looked the same. Almost. Something about it was off, like somebody had taken some of the colour from it, leaving soulless buildings where beautiful houses had once stood. It had been a while since she’d been at this end of town, Lichtenberg wasn’t on her route to work and, well, she never travelled anywhere else anymore. It had been changed last time she’d visited six months ago, and every time, it got worse.

What had remained the same, was the blue door with its lion-head knocker. Not that anybody still used it, but it looked pretty. How many hours had she spent tracing her tiny fingers across that brass mane, she wondered. For now, she pressed the doorbell.

Their flat was on the fourth floor, it always took them a while to get down to her, always. Still, Maria became impatient when, after three minutes, there hadn’t been a reply of any sorts. She pushed the little button again, this time provoking a yell out of the window above her, an annoyed “ICH KOMME!” that made the corners of Maria’s mouth twitch into a little smile. Oh, Aunt Grete with her cakes and her shouting. Maria remembered her first as a beautiful, young lady, then as a jolly, fat little woman. All the more reason for her mouth to drop open in shock when the door swung open to reveal…

She looked old. Old and tired, her cheeks were sunken, her eyes rimmed with grey. They looked dead, none of the life she’d grown up knowing, there was nothing left. Her face was earnest, set in stone, like the expression it wore hadn’t changed since this war began. Why would it have? Her husband was dead. Her son was dead.

Maria cleared her throat. “Hallo. Ich, uh… ich wollte euch gratulieren wegen… wegen Patrick…“ Aunt Grete attempted a small smile, though it looked odd, out of place. “Komm hoch.”

The flat itself was shrouded in the same feeling as the rest of the street, familiar to the point it hurt, the yellow wallpaper sported water-stains and was peeling at the corners, the wooden floor was scratched and marked, the little basket where Nico used to sleep was empty. Maria knew what had happened to the dachshund. At least, she presumed he’d met the same fate as all other pets. How had Patrick taken that? He’d loved that dog…

 

She’d not been here often since ’39 and every time, it made her a little sadder.

“Ich würd’ dir Kuchen anbieten, aber… naja…“ Maria smiled politely. Cake was, unfortunately, a thing of the past, even in Grete Stumph’s household. 

 

“Kein Problem. I, er…”

“Maria!” Oh God. When had she got so big? The last time Maria had seen Lena, she’d been 14. Two years ago. Now, well… she had her dad’s dark hair and her mum’s blue eyes and Maria could just tell she’d be turning heads soon. No, scratch that, she probably was already.

“Lena! Oh mein Gott, du bist so groß!” tall and pretty and exceptionally good at hugs. What a charismatic young woman she was turning into!

“Was machst du so?”

“Ich arbeite im Krankenhaus, weißt schon…“ The hospital? How come Maria had never seen her? “In der Charité! Die haben mich gebraucht.” That would explain it. Good for Lena, getting work in undoubtedly the most famous hospital in Berlin. Not that that meant it was any less of a disturbing site filled with grown men crying for their mothers but still, it was a title, she supposed. “Super! Ich freu mich für dich!” Somehow, she didn’t doubt that her cousin was good at holding people’s hands as they drew their last breaths.

It was then that Maria couldn’t wait to see her favourite cousin any longer. “Wo ist Patrick?” He had to be home, the summer camp had ended three weeks ago. But both Aunt Grete and Lena hesitated, causing an awkward silence to settle over the three women. Maria glanced from one to the other. “Ich… hab von den Plakaten gehört und…” They looked worried. No, Lena looked worried, Grete looked downright sick.

“Was ist passiert?” At times like this, it wasn’t out of place to fear the worst. Had he fallen sick again? Was he coughing again, like he always had as a little child?

“Ist er krank? Vielleicht kann ich helfen..“

“Du kannst nicht helfen. Das ist im Kopf. Der Junge ist krank im Kopf!“ Maria knew quite a few men who were sick in the head. War did that to you. What had happened to little Patrick? What had broken him?

“Kann ich ihn sehen?” Aunt Grete’s mouth was set into a thin line, she looked like she was about to throw her niece out any second now without a second thought, but, thankfully, they weren’t the only two present.

“Lass sie doch, Mama. Vielleicht tuts ihm gut.”

The street had been bad. The flat was worse. Aunt Grete looking closer and closer to giving up every time she saw her was almost unbearable. But the worst thing, the absolute worst thing she could possibly see that day, was waiting for her in little Patrick’s room. She pushed the door open, just a crack. She knew people who were sick in the head, you had to be careful with them, always.

“Patrick?” The room was dark, there was no light on, not even a candle. “Hey, Patrick, ich bin’s… erinnerst du dich noch an mich?” Just because she remembered him like it had been yesterday they were playing together on the road outside didn’t mean he did. “Patrick?”

She only found him by following the noise of sniffing. Pathetic, little heart-wrenching sniffs like he was crying. Oh, baby boy… cowered in the corner below his window, hugging his knees to his chest and hiding his face behind them. “Ich bin’s, deine Cousine Maria. Wie geht’s dir?”  _ How are you? _ Dumb question. She turned on the light, not sure how he’d react, but she couldn’t bear the darkness. His blonde hair was messy and knotted, slim fingers gripping onto it so that it must hurt. Carefully, Maria walked towards him. As she crouched down next to the boy, she had no idea how he’d react. Would he lunge at her? Would he scream and shout? Would he be scared?

“Patrick…” The one thing she did not expect was that he would wrap his arms around her, hold on for dear life, sob into her skirt. Taken aback by the whole situation, she began absent-mindedly stroking across his head, trying to be soothing, the way she would with the boy soldiers. “Schhh, ruhig, ganz ruhig, was ist passiert, Schatz? Ganz ruhig…“ What the hell had happened to him?

 

 

 

_ August 17th 1961 _

The American was so stupid. Nice, but stupid. He stared down at the paper like a dumb goat, mouth hanging open as his glazed eyes stared at the picture in front of him. It was three days old, Maria was surprised she hadn’t seen this when it was first released, but at least she had seen it. Unlike Pete, who – as far as she understood – had spent the time he wasn’t moping at the bar moping at the barracks. He’d never been a heavy drinker, whilst his friends or… whatever the other Americans were to him got drunk off bad beer, he’d always been happy with a single drink to get him through the evening, but lately, Maria had been re-filling his glass with cheap whiskey as though it were water.

The pain.

She got it.

“Where… where did you get this?” His voice was dry and hoarse, like he hadn’t used it in a while. Or like he’d been doing a lot of crying. Maria couldn’t blame him. She had, too.

“Saw somebody reading and asked if I could have. He gave to me it.” Pete frowned down at the photo of himself in mid-air, gun falling off his shoulder, helmet barely hiding his features, barbed wire beneath his boots, reaching out to entangle him. Front page. Not the main article, obviously, an American jumping over the border wasn’t  _ that _ important, but it was a good photo, an eye-catcher.

“I shouldn’t have done it.” This again. Maria sighed heavily and wandered back towards the bit of floor she’d been mopping. “I shouldn’t have left him alone, he… fuck.” It had been four days now. Four days of this, of Pete blaming himself for her little cousin’s fate.

“Shut up, you idiot. This is not your fault. He’s a big boy. He can look over himself.” She kept saying that, like saying it would make it true, like it would erase the memory of Patrick bleeding out on the street from her memory. Somebody had taken him away, two men that had lifted him off the ground and carried him someplace else, hopefully somewhere safe and comfortable. Pete had yelled and shouted at them, told them to get their hands off him, but what were they gonna do? What more damage could they possibly cause? Patrick was a tough little guy, he’d make it through.

Hopefully.

 

 

 

Patrick hadn’t slept much. He’d barely got to close his eyes once in the last four days, whenever he tried to lie down, the world would start spinning and swaying and he could never go more than 10 minutes before he felt sick. It was fucked-up. Would he ever sleep again? He just wanted to not exist for a few hours, was that too much to ask?

The sound of the doorbell almost split his skull in half and he almost fell over as he heaved himself out of bed. He had a show to play tomorrow, hopefully he’d be back to normal by then…

Patrick felt drunk as he toppled through his little flat, hand braced against the wall to keep him from falling until he reached the door. It could only realistically be one person and certainly not the one he was hoping for, still, his heart dropped a little when it was Andy, not Pete, smiling at him. Patrick gestured him inside.

“Wie geht’s dir?” Patrick shrugged. He didn’t want to make a fuss, Andy didn’t need to know how much of a mess he was, it was embarrassing. He was a grown man, he shouldn’t be crying over this, let alone have a total breakdown.

“Have you been drinking enough? You need to drink a lot.” He hadn’t.

“Yeah, sure…”

“Liar.” Andy walked himself into the kitchen like it was his own and filled a glass with cool water. “Drink.” And Patrick drank. It fucking hurt though and he coughed and spluttered when the liquid hit his dry throat.

“Let me look at that?” Patrick flinched away when rough fingers reached for his brow, but he was held in place by the sofa behind him. Andy did not look pleased. “This isn’t healing properly… you should probably see somebody, not that it’s infected or something…”

Patrick scoffed. Like he cared if it was.

“What were you thinking, anyway, you idiot? As if you’d get past them.” Andy had seen his pathetic escape attempt, of course, why hadn’t he considered that? Fuck, how embarrassing…

“I needed… I needed to get to my family…”  _ Don’t think of them, Patrick, don’t think about them. _

“The dude with the curly hair? The one that decided to charge towards the border?” Patrick’s head snapped up a little too quickly, making his whole world spin and turn.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m… what about Pete? What…” Andy raised an eyebrow. Fuck, strong reaction, no, Patrick wasn’t allowed to let on… he couldn’t know, what if he would pass on information? Pete was the enemy in Russia’s eyes.

“I mean… he’s my… I mean, my cousin he… he’s married to my cousin.” That seemed like a somewhat plausible lie, it was believable, right? Something Andy could pick up and regurgitate and who would blame him for caring about his favourite cousin’s h-

“No he’s not, I’m not an idiot.” Fuck. Patrick opened his mouth, desperate to defend himself and to explain, surely, Andy would never conclude the truth, people liked to pretend queers didn’t exist, no way in hell would he-

“It’s fine, I don’t mind, you love him, he loves you, whatever.” Well. Nice try, Patrick. Good going. He summoned up his best pleading expression, big eyes and sagged shoulders. This shit had always worked when he’d been a kid. With his mum, at least, somehow, Nazi officials hadn’t been quite so pleased when he tried to puppy-eye his way out of five-mile runs.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anybody about your American lover boy. Frankly, I don’t really care.” The problem was, if Andy had seen, how many others had? More importantly,  _ who _ had?

“He’s fine. I think. There were some people holding him back. Started cursing me and Gabi when we carried you away, but he seemed fine.” A weight he’d forgotten about momentarily lifted off his shoulders. Pete was okay, he was alright. And if Pete was okay Maria had to be, too, yeah? She’d look after him just fine, they’d be okay, they’d both be alright. That was all that mattered. Fuck, he was going to be sick.

Patrick took one stumbling step in the direction of the bathroom, one stumbling step too many. Before he knew what was happening, the world was rushing past him quicker than he could compute and his stomach felt like he was falling… no, wait, he  _ was  _ falling!

By the time he tried to catch himself, his face had smacked against the carpet with a dull  _ thud _ that left him numb, dizzy and in quite a bit of pain as he lay spread out on the floor.

“Oh shit, Patrick, are you okay?” Strong hands were gripping his shoulders, carefully lifting him into a sitting position until he was looking into out-of-focus ice-blue eyes. Thank fuck he hadn’t been wearing his glasses.

“Look at me, Patrick, look right at me, that’s it.” Andy was holding his face. It felt nice…

“Fuck, okay, I think you have a concussion… you need to see a doctor.”

“I don’t…” Fuck, his tongue was bleeding, “I’m not going to hospital for a… for a concussion, I… I’ll be fine…”

“No, you’re going because your fucking head split open again. You need to get it seen to.” Patrick wanted to protest, it was just a cut, for goodness’ sake, but Andy was stronger than him and he had no chance resisting as he was hurled to his feet and dragged outside. Fuck, he just hoped it wouldn’t scar…

 

 

 

 

Patrick wasn’t sure where Andy was taking him, he hadn’t been in a hospital for a long time and the ones he knew were all in the West because – apparently, he didn’t know how much of this was true – they were better. Of course, they were no longer an option. So he let himself be dragged through the streets of Berlin, hanging off Andy’s shoulder and not really paying much attention to anything other than  _ left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot _ as he tried to keep his balance.

“It’s not much further,” Andy reassured him after what seemed like days and just as Patrick was losing what remained of his will to live, “it’s just over in Friedrichshain but we have to walk it because the U-Bahn was shut down…” Of course it was. On top of everything else, there was no public transport. Fucking great.

There were a lot of soldiers, it was sort of scary… Patrick hadn’t left his flat since… since that day and he kind of wished he never had, there was something threatening in the air, something dangerous in the guards with their rifles. They must be close to the border, there were so many men everywhere. Patrick couldn’t register his surroundings properly, the grey walls all looked the same and-

Panic. A sudden burst of panic washed over him. Not fear, not nervousness, downright panic that made his knees buckle and his breathing stop along with his heart. He felt numb, everything was like he’d been dipped under water, he wanted to run and hide, he fought against the arms wrapped around his body, kicking and pushing and scratching away at soft flesh, he needed to get away, he needed to get out, he-

“PATRICK! Calm down! Hey, hey, cut it out! Calm down!” Andy. It was just Andy. Their eyes met. Why was he so calm?

“Dude, steady breaths, come on, in and out, come on, breathe with me, follow my hand,” it was pressing against his chest, making his lungs deflate before lifting again. Follow my hand… follow… Patrick drew a breath. “Steady, there you go, you’re okay…” He wasn’t. He wasn’t okay in any way, but nice to know Andy thought so, he couldn’t be too far gone then.

“You’re okay, they’ve stopped already, shh, you’re safe…” Who stopped? What stopped?

“What… happened?” Andy looked concerned. 

“Hey, uh… it’s okay, you don’t need to be ashamed, lots of men have the same problem, it’s just normal, it’s just shellshock.”

_ Shellshock _ . Patrick had heard the term before, of course, after the war, people had thrown it around like it was going out of fashion, but never kindly. Always associated with broken soldiers screaming at walls and carving their own skin.

“I’m not… I don’t…”

“It’s okay, war is horrible, so many soldiers came back and weren’t… quite the same…”

“But I wasn’t-” Patrick wanted to explain, wanted to tell Andy he  _ couldn’t  _  be shellshocked, he’d never been in a battle but… well, that would have been a lie. He might not have been sent to one, but it had come to him.

“Why now? I never… this has never happened, like, before…”

“You don’t… oh, yeah, they uh… they fired some guns and, I don’t know, that sets some people off, I guess…” Patrick stared at Andy, dumbfounded and… and a little scared, maybe.

“How do you know these things?” He just shrugged.

“I started studying medicine before the war and… well, I helped out a lot in France, a lot of men were… needed medical attention, I was the best they could get, unfortunately…” Fuck, that was impressive. Studied medicine? He’d actually been to university? Patrick felt a little intimidated, only really, really clever people went to university.

“I’m… gonna go check it out, you can wait here? I’ll be right back.” Andy was already leaning him against a wall and dropping his arm, but Patrick protested.

“No, I wanna see…” Andy didn’t look convinced, he looked more like he wanted to tell him off, make him sit down and wait or whatever, but Patrick was already hobbling off towards where he thought the commotion may be… not that he had a fucking clue, mind.

“You’re going the wrong way.”

He was right, they were near the border. The one between Mitte and Kreuzberg, what was the checkpoint called? He couldn’t remember, it had never mattered. Must be near where he’d been knocked out, though…

There was a small group of people gathered in one very specific spot, surrounded by a couple of guards, there was disturbed crying, the sort Patrick had heard too many times, but none of that was what caught his attention.

“Fuck, they’re… they’re building a wall…” Andy just confirmed what Patrick was seeing with his own eyes. A row of bricks where the wire had been and men diligently stacking them, as though they weren’t sealing themselves in… fuck, they were being sealed in… Patrick felt sick.

“Hey, hey, you okay? Patrick, come on, sit down, you…”

And then he saw the body. He was just a kid, maybe 20 years old, something like that, slumped between two men carrying him away. Patrick wanted to believe he’d just been knocked out, like him, that he was gonna wake up with a concussion and nothing more but that was wishful thinking. Patrick knew that. He was dead.

He ignored Andy as he walked up to the group of people huddled where the boy had been, he ignored the guard telling him to stay away, but Patrick just snapped at him, telling him he just wanted to talk and the guy – a kid himself – didn’t object.

“Was ist passiert?” One of the women turned around and looked at him with teary, green eyes. Her hand was pressed over her mouth, she was obviously in shock. “Was? Warum ist der Junge… haben die… haben die ihn…“ He didn’t need to finish his sentence. She understood. She nodded.

They’d killed somebody. They’d killed a boy.

“Er wollte doch nur… er wollte nur zu seiner Freundin, die ist drüben und…“ Patrick pulled the woman into a close hug when she started sobbing again. He was scared. They were all scared, it was written all over their faces.

The border was real. They were building a wall. And they weren’t afraid to kill anybody who tried to scale it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments would be rad, my tumblr is scmi-sweet if you wanna yell at me there


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks...
> 
> Thanks for the people actually leaving comments, I really, really appreciate it. And thank you to snitchesandtalkers for keeping this boat afloat. Or as afloat as it can be, I suppose.

_ October 27 _ _ th _ _ 1961 _

For once, Pete had been in the barracks when the call had come. Of course, that may have been down to the fact that is was dinnertime and he was eating some not all that terrible soup when his squadron leader had strutted in and told them to get to Charlie ASAP, the tanks were rolling in. Pete had nearly shit himself, he wasn’t going to lie. The tanks. At Charlie. Actual, real, physical war machines at Checkpoint Charlie, at the border crossing, facing the Soviets. Was this it? Was this war?

He’d heard, of course, that there had been some problems at the checkpoint, something about the Soviets refusing to let Hemsing cross a couple of days ago or whatever, he wasn’t sure, he’d not paid as much attention as he probably should have, but was this linked? Were they really,  _ seriously  _ starting World War III because their dear Chief in Mission had been hindered in going to the fucking theatre?!

Then again. War had been started over less. Or more, maybe. Who knows, how much is an individual worth when the collateral is another individual? Or is the only thing that matters the collective, like the Commies believe? Is the collective the greater good?

They hadn’t been kidding, either. They really did roll out the tanks. Pete watched as they rounded the corner, seeing them make their way along Friedrichsstraße, in the middle of a major city in broad daylight, well, having spent months watching them roll through the dirt of war-torn Europe, they looked more out of place than he had ever felt. Good god, why the tanks? This was stupid. It was dangerous, and it was stupid. Pete clutched his gun tightly, not that it would help him much against a grenade or a shell or… whatever would be hurtling at him at hundreds of miles an hour, but he hadn’t brought his teddy, and tried to keep his posture as straight as possible, tried to make himself as tall as he could. Maybe if he pretended he was brave, he could be brave.

His hands were trembling just a bit.

Joe was next to him.

Pete watched as both tanks line up along the border, huge, grey killing machines, so very out of place on a regular street, the sight of them standing there, cold iron, cold, harsh, unyielding iron, tracks ready to crush anyone and anything, cannons ready to rain death on everybody, making the threat real, making it palpable. They were just enough on this side not to start a war. The problem, the real problem, the thing freaking Pete out the absolute most, were the Soviet tanks on the other side, staring back, three of them,  _ their _ cannons pointing right back, mirroring the Americans in some grotesque mockery.

Joe was fidgeting too much. It made Pete glad he wasn’t the one in the tank, but also… what if the men in the tanks weren’t any better? It just took one slip, one person to freak and this whole thing would blow up around them.

By 6pm, civilians had arrived, pushing to get a view of what was going on, so much so Pete heard his colleagues shouting at them to back off. It was a blur, threatening to get out of control, the silent contrast provided by the east harrowing.

By 6.30pm, people were crying. Pete wanted them to stop or join them, either would do, he couldn’t take the waiting anymore, standing there, watching nothing, oraying for it to stay nothing, it was killing him.

By 9pm, the crowd was silent. Nothing but the sound of footsteps, the wind beating around his ears, his fellow soldier clearing his throat, Joe sniffling through a runny nose. He didn’t know what was worse, the crying or… nothing. At least nothing wasn’t war.

By 12pm, Pete was exhausted. This had been going on for seven hours, seven hours of a silent war. Did the world know? Was the world watching? Or were they alone? Did the President care? Did he care about them at all? He hadn’t yet so much as commented on the fucking wall running through their city, not one peep. Then again, barely anybody had. It was like nobody outside of this bubble of a city cared, nobody was coming to help them in their prison of freedom, surrounded by bricks and cement and whatever rubble the soviets had dug up from bombsites. And now they couldn’t even leave. Did anybody care? If the Soviets fired, would anybody help them? Were they worth a war?

Pete found himself wondering what would be worse; being left to die, shot like a fish in a barrel, locked into a place he considered his home and foreign territory, or being sent back to the battlefield, back into the mud, screams and explosions filling his ears, gunshots going off all around, the only thing saving him blind luck as men he’d laughed with minutes before lay at his feet, bleeding out, crying for their mothers, praying to a god they didn’t believe in, a mess of their own guts and bones. He wondered what it was like when killing the enemy meant killing somebody you loved. Would he do it? Pete would rather die a fish.

Joe looked sick, grey bags under his eyes making his features appear sunken and lifeless, were it not for the fear in his eyes. He looked around. Not a single person here wasn’t scared. Some were better at hiding it, the commander there, for example, the one on the far left, he looked kind of intimidating. But Pete had been around scared men enough to recognize them instantly. This was too real, this was just that little bit too real. This was the arms race in all its might and glory, two bags of dicks flexing their muscles ready to beat each other’s faces in, regardless of who got caught on the crossfire.

Pete got close to throwing his gun down and leaving four times during the night.

At 2am, somebody tapped him on the shoulder, told him to go get some sleep, don’t worry, he’d wake him if anything happened. Pete would rather he just died if he was honest.

He hated how he still checked for a glimpse of red-gold hair every time he was at a checkpoint. It had been over two months now. Two months since he’d last seen that hair, covered in sticky red. Sometimes, he caught himself wondering if he’d ever see it again or if it was best to just… let it go.

He couldn’t.

Pete sighed heavily when he realized it was in vein and let his feet drag him back to the barracks.

 

 

 

 

The town was eerily quiet. Oh, there were plenty of people, Pete saw them lingering in their doorways and peering out of their windows, watching the Americans silently, the only noise provided by the engines of the cars. Pete wasn’t quite sure what he should be expecting, what exactly awaited a  _ liberator _ , it sounded good though, like it had all been worth something. This was the end, they were on the home run now, not much longer. The Russians were already in Berlin and, well… there was no stopping the Red Army. The place would be nothing but dust and rubble soon, the Germans eradicated, their minions stamped into the dirt along with their cities and banners. He’d be lying if the thought of seeing the people who stood by and did nothing being turned to ash didn’t make him feel some kind of peace.

But for now, Pete was driving around eastern Bavaria with a handful of other soldiers, collecting up people who looked more like skeletons and following their trail of breadcrumbs laid out with bodies barely human. The last thing he’d expected to find at the end of it had been a small town. He knew where he was headed, they’d told him about the camps, they’d somehow failed to mention they were in regular towns filled with people who hadn’t lifted a finger to stop the Nazis.

It was cold up here, Pete was freezing in his much too thin coat that did little to nothing to shield him from the cold clawing at him from all sides like a pack of wolves hungry to feast off his flesh. They pulled up outside the gates, the administrative building a lifeless, brown bloc in front of them. It was so quiet. Pete suspected the sudden chill that ran down his spine might not solely be due to external conditions.

“Come on, Pete, you useless Jim!” the comment – meant much more light-hearted than it felt – was accompanied with a firm pat (slap) on the back. Pete shot a stern glare towards Jones, but the look wasn’t returned. Pete’s feet were somewhat reluctant to carry him through the iron gates that would tower over a man of average height, not designed to be scaled, a cage without a doubt. Why the fuck was he stepping right into it, again?  

 

 

 

Pete woke with a start. It was light outside, the sun fell onto his face through a window that had not been covered overnight, blinding him with its intensity. He blinked away the sleep still settled in his eyes and rubbed over his face as he looked around the room, trying to pinpoint what had saved him from his nightmare.

McCoy’s long limbs were oddly out of place in the small room. As much as he looked out of place for being the shortest little guy in the army, Travie stood out for being so obscenely tall. Wait… Travie…

“Dude! What are you doing here? I haven’t seen you in ages!” Pete was sat up within seconds, legs swung over the side of the bed, beam plastered firmly onto his face.

“How you doin’, Wentzlet?” Pete fucking hated that nickname, but right now, it was music to his ears. Only Travie called him that. Oh man, how much he’d  _ missed _ Travie, he hadn’t even noticed until his stupid face with its stupid grin and its not-very-military hair was standing right in front of him, clear as day, as though it had been 18 hours rather than 18 months since they had last spoken. Travie fucking McCoy, here, back in East Germany, hair, tattoos and all. Pete got up and walked over to him, only to pull him into a tight hug and give him a pat on the back.

“Heard about the wall, figured I’d come see what all the fuss is about,” McCoy slurred, “if you’re asking me, it’s a bit shit, isn’t it?” Oh man, it was good to have him back.

“So, like, what’ve you been up to?” Travie asked between mouthfuls of his microwaved vegetables. Pete had declined his offer of making a second portion, he wasn’t big on all this microwave food.

“Just… the job, you know, kinda… fetching and delivering most of the time. Well, until recently, it’s mainly been… a bit of a nightmare, really, like, just standing around, watching the Russians… yeah…” He’d spent A LOT of time standing around since the wall had gone up. Travie looked somewhat annoyed.

“Man, I don’t get why they don’t fucking riot! Not like those green as fuck guards can stop an uprising, you hear what I’m saying? Just rebel and fucking walk over the border!” Yeah, it was so easy… it was true, Ulbricht’s fucking wall couldn’t stand if people decided to drag it down, all they had to do was mobilize, have the entire East scale the thing at once or something, they could hardly shoot everybody, they’d surely give up after a while. A few losses to bring down the iron curtain, wasn’t that worth it?

But what if one of those sacrifices was Patrick?

No, Pete understood why they weren’t doing anything.

“They’re scared, man, you have no idea how tight they are over there, two people have already been killed, one of them wasn’t even  _ trying _ to cross, he just steered his boat too close to the border…” McCoy still didn’t seem convinced, however, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Dude, literally, what are they gonna do, shoot the whole East?!”

“Not the whole East. But maybe you or your sister or your, your son or your lover or-“

“You’re still fucking that German kid, aren’t you?” Pete bit his lip. He’d forgotten about that, the time Travie had walked in on him and Patrick – on his knees – in one of the back rooms of the  _ Pickelhaube _ . He’d promised not to tell. So far, he hadn’t.

“It’s been  _ how long _ ?!” Pete took to scratching marks into the soft wood of the table with his thumbnail so he didn’t have to look at him.

“Like… three years? I dunno… I’ve not… not seen him for a while…”  _ A while _ . Too fucking long. With every passing day, somehow he grew less hopeful he’d ever see Patrick again. Maybe it was time to come to terms with that and just…

“So… he’s like on the other side, right?” Pete nodded. The fucking other side. He hated the Soviets.

But Travie sighed heavily and when Pete looked up, he was smiling warmly, like he was about to give Pete his Christmas and birthday present all in one. Travie was a good guy, he just… didn’t get Germany. Pete raised his eyebrows, posing the unspoken question of  _ why the fuck are you looking at me like that _ and Travie took his time, watching Pete squirm as he drank a full glass of water and ate another mouthful of tasteless nothing before putting down his cutlery and dropping the bomb.

“Then why don’t you go see him? The tanks are gone, they opened the border to Allied soldiers. We’re free to cross, dude. Go see your sweetheart.”

Pete just stared at him. Stared like he was dumb. He’d heard what Travie had said, he understood it, but did he believe it? Then again, why would he lie? Was there any reason? He could get up and go now, cross over at Charlie, get on the next tube to take him to Lichtenberg, he could be with Patrick within the hour, he could actually-

“Wentz, there you are! Get your ass out here, you’re on fucking patrol!”

 

 

 

The pair of blue eyes had been on him all evening. Patrick wasn’t stupid and he may be blind but he was wearing his glasses, so he was fully aware of the dude watching him across the bar. He was also aware of the  _ type _ of look he was receiving, it was the sort that filled him with pride and made him want to curl up in a ball and hide at the same time. The second part was mainly because he enjoyed the first bit, enjoyed the attention, the stares, the lingering looks, the silent comments, but since Pete, well, he’d felt guilty about enjoying them. Recently he’d been enjoying them more, more and more the longer and longer it got. Two months. Two months were a long time. Of course, the more he enjoyed the stared and the looks and the comments, the more and more the guilt piled up on him until it almost felt crushing.

It had been Andy’s suggestion: Go out for a drink to celebrate the fact they weren’t dead. Have a bit of fun, lighten up, enjoy life now that they still could. And he had, it had been fun at first. Then he’d had a drink to many and then he’d caught a glimpse of a stubbled jaw that had let his heart rate pick up just for a millisecond before it had come crashing down again when the total stranger turned around completely. It hurt.

And now, Andy was… God knows where and Patrick was sitting at the table alone with a really shit, warm beer between his palms and smoke from the table next to him clouding his brain and thoughts buzzing around in his head and-

“Hey, Hübscher…” Oh fuck. Patrick bit his lip as he turned to face the guy who’d been watching him. Tall, dark, handsome. As if he needed any more clichés in his life. He’d had enough to last him forever, he  _ was _ one, for goodness’ sake. He attempted a smile but suspected it came off as pathetic rather than polite, he certainly  _ felt  _ pathetic. Pathetic and… and guilty as the guy asked whether the chair vacated by Andy seconds earlier was free and he said yes.

“So… you’re on the team, yeah?” Tall, dark, handsome let his teeth sink into his lower lip cheekily and Patrick knew what he was doing when he followed that up by licking over it. Nonetheless, it didn’t help clear the confusion clouding his mind.

“The, uh… team?” he could  _ feel _ his cheeks turning bright red when tall, dark and handsome chuckled lightly as he raised his beer to his lips, winking not very subtly. Patrick hated himself.

“You’re gay, yeah?”  _ Fuck. _ The fear of fucking God above shot through Patrick and he scanned the room around them, just to check nobody had overheard, nobody had been paying attention. What about that man, there, looking at him from th- no, no, he was just being nosy, and the dude playing darts, he looked shocked by something, what it he knew? Patrick couldn’t stand up to him, not in a million years, he was pure  _ beef _ , fuck, he wasn’t-

“Calm down, dude, nobody gives a fuck, this is the fucking East.”  _ The fucking east _ as if the commies in charge and their desperation to be decidedly  _ not capitalist, not Christian _ changed the opinions of the men surrounding them. Patrick couldn’t bring himself to look anywhere near tall, dark, handsome and his stupid laugh. He was so pretty and Patrick was so… plain. He was just plain.

“What’s your name?” Patrick stared into his lukewarm beer. The guilt was unbearable.

“Patrick.” Tall, dark and handsome leaned back, legs crossed, arm lazily slung over the back of his chair and  _ wow _ he was attractive… looking at him was dangerous, a look turned into a stare way too easily.

“Patrick, nice… nice name… I’m Julian.” Patrick didn’t look at Julian, he was scared of getting burned.

“You here alone?” Patrick risked a glance at a peppered jaw and realized it was already too much.

“With a friend. He’s… he’s here somewhere, I.. I’m not sure…” Actually, Patrick would really like Andy to show up about now. At least, sensible, good, loyal, kind Patrick wanted that. There was this tiny part of him that loved this attention, relished in it, lapped it up and craved more, infinitely more, as much as he could have until it was all-consuming. He didn’t like it.

It was when he was about to make some excuse to slip away he made the mistake of looking up. Julian had leaned forward, he was now inches away, his fingertips were brushing the back of Patrick’s hand still clutching an undrinkable beer and he was so  _ beautiful _ .

“Let me get you a drink, Patrick. Just one, come on…” And Patrick nearly did let him. He nearly said yes, it had been too long since anybody had got him anything, since anybody had showed any interest in him, since there had been the promise of loaded words, warm hands and warmer lips and who knows what else… it was so simple, he just had to say yes, just had to agree and let this frankly gorgeous specimen of a man get him a drink, give him a kiss and fuck him senseless and the word was on the tip of Patrick’s tongue, but…

His eyes were too blue.

His smile wasn’t quite bright enough.

He didn’t stop the constant, dull ache.

Patrick smiled politely and pulled his hand away.

“Sorry, uh… Julian. You’re… you’re very attractive, but I sorta… I have a boyfriend… like, a serious one and… and, yeah. I love him. Sorry. You’re nice. Sorry.” Julian looked like he had something else to say, but just then Andy re-emerged, wiping his hands on his jeans and Patrick took that as he cue to leap u, grab his more than confused friend by the arm and drag him out of the stuffy, gloomy pub.

 

 

 

Patrick wondered what that night was like in the West. He didn’t often think about the West, sure, about Maria, sure, about the pub, about Pete, but not the West per se. He’d never been the biggest fan of how nosey everybody over there was, the progressiveness of the culture a nice touch, but the need for communication that came with it not best suited to Patrick’s inability to focus on a conversation for more than four seconds.

But tonight, he imagined the West was glowing with life to make up for the time they’d thought lost a mere day earlier. Patrick hadn’t gone to see the tanks. The good reason for that was that there were guards and where the Soviet guards were, Patrick wasn’t if he could help it. He already saw more than enough of them lingering around the area and, not unfrequently, his flat. They weren’t a match to the undercover Stasi officials, though, and by that Patrick meant they were nowhere near as obviously inconspicuous. They might be professional shit heads but they weren’t any good at disguises, that much was for sure.

No, Patrick hadn’t gone to Charlie. He’d instead locked himself in his bedroom and beat the living daylights out of his guitar’s strings until the high E had snapped and torn across his hand. And then he’d slept. And then he’d woken up when Andy had rung his doorbell. And then he’d been dragged to some little pub somewhere. And then he’d been hit on. And then he’d enjoyed it a little too much. And then he’d left. And then he’d turned down Andy’s offer to go to another place. And then he’d gone home and hidden under his blanket just in case somebody was hiding in his closet and would be able to see the tears glistening on his face. He couldn’t hide the sniffling, much as he tried. His heart hurt so much.

At this moment, he was lying on his back shrouded in darkness, staring at nothing, nowhere as he made himself not feel anything because he wasn’t quite sure if he could handle thinking about anything else right now.

He was so close to sleep, eyes fluttering on the brink of a dream as his whole body teetered on the edge of calm, seconds away from shutting off, even if just for a few hours, when something tore him right back. Patrick’s breathing stopped, his eyes snapped open and his heart began hammering in his chest as though it was a bird trying to break free. Not a sparrow, a vulture. Maybe if he didn’t breathe, they’d go away.

The doorbell rang again. Patrick didn’t move. They’d shown up before, of course. Patrick considered himself in a serious relationship with the official who enjoyed lingering around on the street outside, but not at two in the morning. He could joke about it when the sun was high in the sky and he wasn’t quite so alone but right now, sweat was gathering on his brow, despite it being fucking freezing because the heating still wasn’t working in his bedroom.

The ringing turned into knocking, meaning they were right outside his flat. Not on the street downstairs with a flight of stairs or an elevator ride between them, but right outside, nothing but a wooden panel separating them from him. Patrick closed his eyes and forced his lungs to draw a breath before he swung his legs over the side of his bed.

His footsteps rang like thunder every time his socked feet hit the plywood floor, way louder than they should or ever had. Patrick paced through the hallway of his flat like a tiger stalking its prey, except he didn’t feel particularly like a huge cat with fangs as long as a finger, much as he wished he was. The floor creaked as he came to a stop in front of the door. The peephole was – of course – just a little too high for him to be able to look through it comfortably, he always had to stand on tiptoes to be able to see the stairs outside, the horrid, mustard-yellow walls with the tiling around the bottom and the banisters that looked like they wouldn’t do anything to stop you from tumbling to your death if you fell against them. Patrick pushed himself up until his eye was at the right height and saw… nothing. The stairwell was dark, there was no light on. All he could make out was a figure, the outline of a man… just one, okay, maybe he could take down just one in an emergency, just in case… he glanced around and spotted a metal shoe horn he could use as a very makeshift weapon should the need arise. Fuck, he was in so much trouble…

He couldn’t put this off forever. If he didn’t open the door himself now, they would open it. Right now, they had nothing against him – Patrick wasn’t even quite sure why they were showing up outside his flat in the dead of night as though he was some hardened criminal – but if he didn’t open up to them…

He drew a deep breath.

He slid the chain off the door.

He twisted the handle.

All air was crushed out of his lungs.

It took less than a second for Patrick’s brain to compute that he hadn’t been hit in the stomach, that he hadn’t been thrown against a wall, that he wasn’t being handcuffed or questioned or even suspected of anything. He didn’t have to see Pete’s face to know it was him, in fact, his arms had wrapped around his body and his hands had balled into his loose jacket tightly before his conscious mind had even realized that  _ Pete. _

It really was Pete.

His Pete, standing in his apartment, holding him,  _ crushing _ him in the tightest hug possible, he was here, he was actually, physically here, not a fantasy spewed out by Patrick’s mind, not just a dream.

They clung on to each other for God knows how long, not speaking, not moving, just making up for the weeks and weeks they’d been made to miss. Patrick still wasn’t convinced he wasn’t dreaming. He’d cry if he wasn’t so overwhelmed, even if it meant Pete seeing...

It was Pete who broke the hug, pulling away just enough so Patrick could see him. He looked tired, bags under his eyes and creases on his forehead, like something was worrying him. But fuck, those were his eyes and that was his bright, blinding smile. His hands were cupping Patrick’s face, thumbs gently stroking over his cheekbones. Pete hadn’t shaved in a while.

“Fuck, I missed you so much, Trick!” The sound of his voice almost made Patrick break down. Almost. Instead, he smiled and raised a hand to trace the back of Pete’s with his fingertips. He was real. He was warm and safe and here and  _ real _ , Patrick could touch him and hold him and hear him and he was  _ real _ .

“I missed you, too. So, so,  _ so _ much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and kudos would be rad (seriously), my tumblr is scmi-sweet


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw for homophobia and violence at the end of this

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks again to snitchesandtalkers for tidying up my mess! and thanks to everybody commenting

Patrick wasn’t quite sure why they were naked. Well, he supposed it had something to do with their attempt to fuck on the couch which had ended up with them both as a laughing pile of limbs on the floor. He wasn’t quite sure why they were still naked as they sat on the sofa eating the last apple in Patrick’s fruit bowl, it was really too cold to wear anything less than cuddly jumpers, but Patrick didn’t care much about the goose bumps on his skin if it meant he could stare at a little more of Pete.

“This is so boring”, Pete commented with a grimace as he took a bite out of his first slice. Patrick knew it was boring, they were usually all soft and mushy and kinda tasteless and not all that great but it had to do…

“Sorry… it’s the best I could get.” A hand lovingly ruffled his hair and Patrick leaned into it just a little.

“Don’t worry, you make up for all the soggy apples the world could ever throw up at me.” Patrick rolled his eyes at how downright  _ American _ that comment was.

“Dude, the cheese… you’re too…”

“Cheesy? I’m too cheesy?” There was a huge,  _ cheesy _ grin plastered across Pete’s stupid face, one that definitely answered his question, but before Patrick could point that out, he was being tackled onto his back.

“I’ll show you cheesy, you damn German, come on, let me show you cheesy!” Patrick yelped and screamed loud enough to wake up any sleeping neighbours and Pete’s stupid fingers started tickling him in all those much too sensitive spots, under his arms, on his neck, that bit just over his belly button, the backs of his knees, Patrick kicked and spluttered as Pete’s hand moved along the inside of his thigh, the absolute  _ worst _ , and he tried to push him away when he started tickling his neck with his nose, he was laughing so hard, his stomach hurt, it was unbearable, he couldn’t even speak to defend himself anymore, he was too busy laughing until tears collected in the corners of his eyes and h-

“Ooh… fuck…” Pete smirked against his throat as his fist curled around Patrick’s dick and slowly stroked it. Patrick shifted his hips, just a little, but Pete held him down with his free hand and picked up speed a little with the other.

And when Patrick barely choked out “ _ fuck _ , too… too dry”, all Pete did was move his face from where it was nestling in the crook of his neck to nestle between his legs instead. Patrick whined, long and high, as he licked a stripe along the underside of his cock before slipping just the tip between his lips. It was enough for Patrick’s toes to curl when he started sucking gently. All he could do was wrap his fingers in Pete’s coarse curls and carefully urge him further, but even that didn’t work as Pete just pulled off and pouted up at him.

“Ugh, pl-please, Pete, I…” he wasn’t a fan of begging, but he knew Pete was into it or whatever, and right now, anything that would get his dick sucked was good. But Pete just crawled back along the couch until he could claim Patrick’s lips in a heated kiss. Pale fingers clutched on to dark hair for dear life as Pete started grinding, rubbing their dicks together and it was way too dry and way too much friction, but  _ fuck _ , Patrick felt dizzy. He whined and moaned and whimpered as their tongues clashed, he didn’t close his eyes because he wanted to see Pete, he needed to see him, so he knew it was really real and he wasn’t imagining him. And when brown eyes snapped open to meet his, he smiled, no, grinned, to match the expression of the man lying on top of him.

“Fuck, Patrick,” Pete breathed into him, “I was starting to worry I’d dreamt you.” He had the oddest ways of saying  _ I love you _ . Patrick stroked the side of his face and gently planted a kiss on his forehead before Pete reclaimed his lips.

“I really… I’m not against the couch per se but… bedroom?”

Patrick found himself on his back on the bed within a minute, Pete lying between his legs, but not doing much else, just kissing him, again and again. Or still, maybe? Either way, Patrick could tell he believed this was real as much as he did himself, like he had to grab him and hold onto him before he drifted away again. But Patrick’s dick was hard and heavy and he was rather desperate for anything Pete was willing to give him. He tried rubbing against him, but Pete sat back.

“Impatient…” Fuck him, fuck… fuck Pete Wentz. Well, he would if he could…

“It’s been months, Pete… please…” He somewhat expected Pete to tease some more, wind him up until he could barely take it, do his stupid Pete Wentz thing of wrapping everyone and everything around his finger with a stupidly handsome smile. He didn’t expect him to give in as easily as he did, crawling back down the bed until he could suck Patrick’s cock into his mouth.

Patrick cried out and his fists gripped the sheets when Pete took him all the way in straight away, not leaving  _ any _ time to prepare at all. He didn’t slow down either, Patrick thought he was going to lose his fucking mind when a skilled tongue traced the vein running along his cock, when beautiful lips suckled at his tip. Pete didn’t take his eyes off Patrick’s face, almost flirting with him as he hungrily mouthed at his cock, like he’d been starved for weeks. Well. In a way he had. Patrick bit his fist to try and control himself as he drew dangerously close to his climax, he could feel it pooling in his gut, so close to exploding, his first fucking decent orgasm in  _ months _ , but if he let go now, then that was it and he wanted  _ Pete _ .

“Stop, stop,” he panted, “stop, please, stop, fuck me, fuck…. Argh… fuck, Pete, please…” of course, Pete obliged, at least, he let go of Patrick’s cock, it slipped out from between his lips and smacked into Patrick’s stomach. Instead, he nuzzled his way past Patrick’s balls, breathing warm air against them and sending shivers up and down Patrick’s spine. He gasped like a cliché when Pete’s hot, wet tongue pressed against him, making his dick twitch. Patrick tried to hold back those dumb noises that always came out of him during sex, but it was really hard with Pete crouching between his legs, holding them up by his thighs and pushing his tongue inside him, stretching him as best he could without using fingers until he had to give in and drop one of Patrick’s legs. He did his best to hold it up himself as Pete pushed one, two long fingers into him, there was a slight burning, but Patrick bit his lip through it as Pete scissored them and carefully, carefully worked him open and by the time he was done, he’d hit his prostate so many times Patrick’s brain had turned to jelly, he’d slicked him up and prepared him for his dick, Patrick was ridiculously close to coming without as much as a hand on his dick.

He was barely aware of Pete rummaging in the bedside drawer for the little tub of vaseline that had been stored away in there collecting dust for the last two or three months. He was too far gone to take in any of his surroundings until he felt the dull ache of Pete’s cock pushing into him, so strange but still familiar. Fuck, it had been too long.

“Fuck, hang on, gimme… gimme…” Pete was breathing heavily, buried deep inside him as he waited for the  _ go _ with an expectant expression on his face. But it was too much, Patrick could feel himself clenching, trying to relax, trying to push past that point of pain, but he couldn’t… he wasn’t…

“Ssssh, calm down, baby”, Pete’s voice cut through like a knife. A pleasant knife. That was a weird image. Patrick found his eyes and held his gaze, trying to focus on the whiskey gold rather than anything else. “It’s okay, I’ve got you, do you want me to stop?” No. no, he didn’t want him to stop. Patrick shook his head.

“You sure?” Yes. Patrick nodded. Pete leaned forward and kissed him gently, hiss hands were cupping his face and Patrick concentrated on nothing else as he slid out slowly, leaving him empty and gaping and feeling ridiculously exposed.

“Come back, please, I, I-“

“Shhhh, it’s okay, I’m still here, I’m still here.” They kissed again as Pete slid back in, carefully, so Patrick felt every inch of him. Of him. Of Pete,  _ fuck _ , this was Pete, finally back in his bed, in  _ him _ . Patrick whimpered, painting a huge grin on Pete’s face in doing so.

“There we go… oh, fuck, you feel so, so good…” Pete panted sweet, meaningless nothing into Patrick’s ear, all the time pinning his hands next to his head by his wrists while Patrick stared at the ceiling with a blank expression, too busy letting Pete  _ fucking _ Wentz blow his mind to do much else.

He’d missed the fucking. No, he knew he wasn’t supposed to admit it, you don’t admit to missing sex when there’s an actual fucking wall separating you from the fucking love of your fucking life but-

“FUCK! Fuck!” Yeah, that was his prostate. Patrick turned his head in an attempt to see Pete, but his face was once again buried in the crook of his neck as he panted into the pillow. Patrick wanted to kiss him, he needed to…

He hitched his legs up to wrap them around Pete’s waist. The change of angle nearly killed him, Pete hit that fucking sweet spot on every thrust and Patrick’s mouth dropped open in a silent cry as he felt the tension building in his gut again.

“Fuck,” Pete hissed, “fuck, Patrick I’m gonna… gonna…”

“No, no, not yet, please, pl- fuck, oh God, I love you so much, I love you so much…” That was enough for Pete to finally,  _ finally _  lift his head and kiss him. Deep, desperate and way too many teeth, almost too much tongue, wet and sloppy and so pathetically  _ needy _ . Patrick cried out when a hand wrapped around his throbbing cock. Within one, two, three strokes, he was gasping for air as the pressure unwound and shook his whole body with the ecstasy of it.

Pete.

Fucking Pete.

When he came back down, they were wrapped around each other, soaking wet with sweat and come and filling the darkness with ragged breaths. Wrapped around each other, he had Pete. He had Pete in his bed, wrapped around him, holding him close. They were sharing the same space, the same air.

“You’re wearing my watch”, Pete muttered into Patrick’s hair.

“Always”, Patrick muttered back. Pete pressed a kiss to his temple.

“Sleep, sweetheart. I promise I’ll be here when you wake up.”

 

 

 

Pete was there when Patrick woke up. He had a smile on his lips before he even opened his eyes, as though he knew he’d be met with the sleeping face of his lover. He looked so peaceful, none of that worry he’d seen in his expression the day before evident. Ever so carefully, Patrick reached across and stroked his knuckles along Pete’s bearded jaw… it really was a mess, he should probably shave. Patrick could still feel the burn of it between his legs.

He felt a little guilty as whiskey eyes peeled open slowly. “Sorry,” he whispered, but Pete just nuzzled into him and closed his eyes again. The clock on the wall told Patrick it was 12pm. Good job he was self-employed. He sighed and put an arm around Pete’s shoulders so he could trace little patterns on his back. It felt odd having him here after so long.

It felt odd and unfamiliar and safe.

Patrick placed a kiss on Pete’s forehead. Part of him wanted to get up – specifically his grumbling stomach – but the other part kept reminding him that he had no idea how long he had this for and if he’d have it again… would he ever have it again? Fuck, he didn’t wanna think about it. And much as he wanted to let Pete sleep all day, he was painfully aware of the clock ticking in the background.

“Pete, darling, it’s past midday… you gonna wake up?” Pete grumbled like a little kid being sent to school. “Come on, they’re… they’re gonna want you back soon, aren’t they?” Pete hated the Soviets and Patrick hated the American army. Swings and roundabouts.

“We could just stay here,” Pete groaned into his pillow as his arms wrapped around Patrick like tentacles, “just stay here forever.”

“Yeah…” Patrick murmured in return, “yeah, that sounds nice…” God knew he wanted nothing more. He suspected, however, that the Stasi would grow suspicious if their favourite blondie didn’t greet their trench coated officer for a few day and the army would come knocking looking for their good little soldier.

With a final sigh, he wriggled free of Pete’s death grip and heaved himself out of bed. He hadn’t washed before falling asleep and he pulled a face at the dry jizz on his stomach.

“I’m taking a shower, you coming?” He kind of hoped Pete would join him, but the American just groaned his disapproval and wrapped himself in the duvet a bit more. Oh well, at least he could set the water to  _ his _ temperature.

Once he’d washed and dried himself, he pulled on some fresh clothes and his fedora, picked out his tattered old leather jacket and slipped into his worn-out shoes. Pete was still dozing.

“I’m popping to the bakery, yeah? Don’t run off.” Pete moaned something into the pillow. Patrick walked over to him and pressed a kiss to his temple before leaving, locking the door behind him, just in case somebody came noseying. Just in case…

“Habt ihr Amerikaner da?” Sölz, the baker, shook his head apologetically. Was it a surprise? Patrick twisted his mouth in thought. “Schwarzbrot, bitte… ja, ein viertel. Wie immer…” He wanted to buy in larger quantities, but he didn’t want to risk questions. Or getting his hopes up.

Sölz glanced out of the shop window and indicated Patrick should wait a second before disappearing through a door behind him. It all felt a little shifty and Patrick, feeling more than uncomfortable, began inspecting the rolls with much greater interest than he actually had in them. Not like that was suspicious at all now, was it? At least what little the baker had in looked nice…

He re-appeared with a paper bag and a wink before rattling through a list of bread Patrick hadn’t asked for, tapping the loaf of bread he had asked for into the till and popping that in the bag with whatever else he was about to hand over. Patrick handed over the silver coins with a smile of gratitude before leaving, course set to his apartment. His little flat where his boyfriend was waiting for him. He was home in almost half the time it usually took him.

Patrick swept right into the kitchen, humming to himself happily as he got out the old, ugly plates and glasses that he filled with orange juice and carried over to the little table in the corner. He then turned to inspect the bag. The loaf was neatly placed on top, concealing whatever tasty treats Sölz had hidden in there for him. Patrick’s face lit up at the sight of fresh croissants. Not quite what he’d asked for, but just as delicious. It would go nicely with that strawberry jam he’d got three weeks ago.

His face lit up even more when he felt strong arms wrap around his waist, holding him tightly but not so it hurt. Just right. Pete’s chin rested on his shoulder and he felt slightly chapped lips against his cheek, a beard scratching over his skin. Patrick lifted his hand to it and turned his face to meet Pete in a gentle kiss.

“You need to shave,” he commented.

“You need to mind your own business,” Pete shot back as he unashamedly groped Patrick’s ass. He was still naked, bloody Pete and his exhibitionism.

“Can you at least put some trousers on before you plant your naked ass all over my furniture?” It was a reasonable request, but Pete looked at him as if he’d just asked him to cut his arm off. Patrick rolled his eyes at the actual four-year-old tucking into the croissant that had been put in front of him.

As the comfortable silence fell between them while they ate, Patrick once again became aware of how utterly at home he felt. And how fleeting that feeling was. The only thing he wanted to do was hold onto Pete and never ever let him go again, but he couldn’t, so instead he reached out his hand and laced their fingers together. Pete didn’t look up, brown eyes still fixed on the food in his hand, but his thumb began gently stroking over Patrick’s.

“I don’t want you to go”, he muttered quietly, to himself more than anybody else. Pete raised his hand to his lips and kissed his fingers, wordlessly. Patrick knew he didn’t want to go either, he didn’t have to say it.  But Pete managed to keep that beautiful smile on his face, like he knew he needed to drag Patrick through this somehow.

“Oh, dude, do you remember Travie?” The sudden answer took Patrick aback a little, but he managed to nod. Travie. Tall, strong, physically everything Patrick wasn’t. Patrick faintly recalled a dark back room and Pete’s hands on the back of his head…

“He came back! He’s the one that told me I could  cross!” Patrick smiled. It wasn’t genuine and he knew Pete knew, though he didn’t know why himself. The whole  _ incident _ must have been two years ago at that point, Patrick hadn’t even been that bothered by it, he hadn’t been the one with his dick out, after all, but there was… there was something about Travie being back. Something that reminded him of back when he and Pete were little more than fuckbuddies, when they could have been spending so much time together. Patrick wasn’t a fan of dwelling on the past and anybody in it.

“It’s good you have a friend, really,” he assured Pete, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to feel happy about it. Pete didn’t address that.

“What… what about you, did… d’you have anybody to look out for you over here?” Pete was scared of the answer, he could tell. He knew how utterly terrible Patrick was at connecting with literally anyone, how he got nervous about going out to meet people and once he was out, conversation wasn’t his strong suit. Oh, he was fantastic at talking about boring stuff like marine biology and obscure bits of tech, but small talk… yeah…

“I’ve got Andy,” Patrick shrugged, “he, uh… he looked after me when the… after the border closed, y’know…” Pete nodded.

“Dude with the ginger beard?”

“Yeah, him, did you…”

“I watched him carry you away, I… I didn’t know… I kinda… I kinda thought you were dead. For a bit. I mourned you and… yeah. I just, I thought you were dead because I didn’t see you or… anything, but it’s fine, it’s…” Fuck. Fuck, Patrick hadn’t even thought about that, he’d not considered the fact that the last time Pete and Maria had seen him, he’d been lying on the ground with blood all over his face. He’d not even thought about sending a letter… then again, what would he have said? Not like it would have ever got to them, anyway. Still, he felt guilty. He’d been feeling that a lot lately.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, “I was… had a bit of a concussion, I just… I’m sorry I didn’t get in touch.” Of course, Pete just shook his head, “no, it’s not your fault. I’m glad you’re okay.You, uh,” he smiled and pointed at Patrick’s brow, “you got yourself a nice battle scar there though, soldier.” Patrick touched his fingertips to where his head had been split open. He’d only needed a few stitches, but they seemed to have left their mark. What a terribly rebellious story he had to tell now. A token of probably the only time he’d showed bravery in his life.

 

 

 

“Patrick, gehst du bitte ran?” Patrick tutted, but did as he was told. She was his mother, he might be the only man in the house, but he had to respect his parents. Parent.

He slipped out of the heavy, wooden front door of their little, old flat and thundered down the ancient, wooden staircase he was certain would crumble with every step he took. Somehow he always made it to the bottom without having to free either of his feet from a hole in the stairs. Quickly, he undid both locks on the front door – always keep it locked, what with break-ins and burglaries on the rise – and opened it a crack.

It was already twilight outside. The street lights weren’t on – it was one of those nights – and nobody was out on the streets. Patrick squinted at the figure concealed by the dim light and the shade of the setting sun, the fact that his glasses were still sitting on his desk upstairs certainly no help to him right now.

“Markus?!” Even in bad lighting, Patrick still recognized the boy. Soldier, now, he supposed. He was wearing a uniform, after all. Patrick stepped outside into the fresh, chill of a Berlin evening in April. He was going to hold out his hand for Markus to take, the way that was proper and polite, they way they used to, but it was bypassed and he found himself being crushed in a tight hug. Patrick had to sink his teeth into his bottom lip, so he didn’t yelp and push him away.

_ Just friendly. _

_ He’s just being friendly, you fucking sick piece of shit. _

“Na, kleiner, wie geht’s?” Patrick’s face heated up as the soldier pinched his cheek playfully. Fuck. He tried to hide it.

“Gut. Ganz gut, ich… noch ein Jahr und ich kann auch kämpfen. Nimmer lang.“ He said it with pride in his chest, proof to himself and the man in front of him that he was just as grown-up and just as prepared to die for what was right, if need be. Markus offered a little smile.

“Magst du spazieren gehen?” Yes. Yes, Patrick would like that very much. He nodded enthusiastically and began following Markus down the street, not knowing where they were headed, but it didn’t matter much. He’d always looked up to Markus, he was like the older brother Patrick had lost too soon, it was nice. He was nice. Patrick bit down on the inside of his cheek, hard.

“Was treibst du so zurzeit? Wenn du daheim bist, mein ich,“ Markus suddenly sat down on a bench in front of a bush, his eyes sparkling like a thousand stars, “hast du ‘ne Freundin?” Patrick was grateful for the lack of light when he felt his cheeks burning red. “Nee… ich… nee.” He chuckled nervously. Girlfriend… somehow not something he’d thought about much. He should, he know he should, he was 13 now, some of his classmates had had their first kiss.  _ Some _ of them even had girlfriends, but they were the naughty ones, anyway. Patrick wasn’t naughty.

Markus, however, seemed somewhat surprised by this. “Nee? Wirklich? Du bist doch so hübsch…“ Patrick’s gut clenched, not because of Markus‘ words, but because of how they made him feel. No, he was just being stupid, it was nothing at all… it was nothing…

Pretty. Markus thought him pretty. He hid his smile behind a sneer. The soldier just shrugged. “Ich bin nicht blind, ich kann doch sehen, wenn jemand schön ist. Sie tun’s doch auch, oder?“ He had a point, Patrick supposed. When the men selected his portrait, hadn’t they thought him beautiful? He certainly had… desirable features. He shrugged it off.

“Okay, ‘tschuldige, ich nehm’s zurück, du bist hässlich!“ What?! Patrick’s expression must have given away his shock, because next thing, Markus was chuckling and lightly punched his arm. “Ich verarsch dich nur. Komm. Setz dich hin.” Patrick took a seat as far away from the soldier as he could. He’d not been left much space.

“Wie läuft’s in der Jugend? Ist Adolf noch bei euch?“ Patrick scoffed at the vagueness of the question. Adolf. As if not ever second fucking kid was named Adolf.

 

“Welcher?”

“Na, der große mit den roten Haaren, weißt schon, der sich immer über dich lustig gemacht hat und selber aussieht wie ein Pferd“, yes, Adolf the perpetual bully. Patrick couldn’t think of a more unfitting name for him, really. “Der hat bestimmt blöd geschaut, als er das erste Plakat gesehen hat!“ Patrick smirked to himself. He’d only seen one poster himself, him mother had said she’d seen another, but it did feel like a decided  _ fuck you _ to Adolf and his little crew of assholes.

“Ja, der is’ noch da, aber der lässt mich in Ruhe.“ Markus nodded. „Gut. Der soll weg bleiben von dir.“ Patrick made a point not to look at the soldier’s face, instead fixing on the hand lying in his lap instead. It was a nice hand, long, slender fingers, strong knuckles and- he shook his head, that nauseous feeling returning to his gut.

“Wie ists im Krieg? Hast du schon jemanden getötet? Sind die Ammis echt so hässlich wie-„ Markus‘ little chuckle threw him off. Patrick felt stupid. Again. Like he was the dumb, clueless kid and-

But Markus always knew what to do. He softly patted Patrick on the back before saying: “Nee, die Ammis sind echt schön. Manche. Manche nicht, aber das ist bei und nicht anders.“ The Americans? Beautiful?! Patrick couldn’t help but frown at his friend. Markus just shrugged again, uniform loosely folding with his movements. He looked good in it.

“Sind auch nur Menschen. Und Krieg, naja… so richtig war ich noch in keiner Schlacht. Noch nicht. Morgen, dann, morgen geht’s los für mich…“ Markus didn’t look excited about the prospect of being sent out to battle tomorrow. Patrick swallowed down the nagging memory of his mother crying at the kitchen table, the second fateful letter clutched in her trembling fingers. War was glorious! They’d been promised that, it was when they could prove their loyalty!

His father would never come home.

“Naja, weißt du, irgendwie… die Männer in den Krankenhäusern lassen das ganze dann doch nicht so glorreich wirken…“ there was something almost like regret in Markus‘ voice. Like he didn’t believe what they’d been taught their whole life, that this war was the only way, this fight was worth it!

And Patrick’s father and brother would still never come home. He gulped hard to swallow down the doubt that had made his was up from his gut, he was certain it came from the same place as this nausea.

“Weißt du…” Markus sighed, his arms was resting over the back of the bench. Across Patrick’s shoulders, almost, “eigentlich mag ich nicht sterben…”

_ I don’t want to die. _ Patrick looked at him with big, blue eyes. He’d not really considered that much, the finality of it. They’d always… they were always taught how dying for the fatherland was the biggest honour… it was! Of course it was, but… but it seemed so final, surely, there must be a better way…

He surprised even himself with his next words: “Ich mag auch nicht, dass du stirbst… und ich… ich will eigentlich auch nicht sterben.“ Markus gave him a sad, little smile, like he knew. He understood. Patrick’s heart was hammering in his chest, he seemed so much closer now than he had been when Patrick had sat down, so much…

“Ich weiß, kleiner”, Markus muttered quietly and then…

„Patrick!!“ Patrick quickly pulled away and jumped up, putting as much space between him and the boy he’d just been… he’d been… fuck. He’d kissed a boy. He felt sick. He felt utterly, utterly sick. He wanted turn around, he wasn’t sure whether to shout at or to apologize to Markus, still sitting on the bench, but his mother had already grabbed him by the wrist and was dragging him back down the street. Tears were pooling in his eyes. God, he was disgusting, fuck, why him? He’d always been good, always done as he was told, always been so very, very careful to be obedient and… and now he was  _ sick _ , he was fucking  _ sick _ , he…

“SAG MAL, WAS FÄLLT DIR EIN?!“ his mother thundered as soon as the door to their little, old apartment closed behind them. “EINFACH AUF OFFENER STRASSE?! WO ALLE DICH SEHEN KÖNNEN?! SPINNST DU, JUNGE?! ANTWORTE MIR, WAS IST DIR BITTE DURCH DEN KOPF GEGANGEN?!“ Patrick was crying. Fuck, no, not that as well, no, he  _ couldn’t  _ cry, he  _ couldn’t _ ! He wasn’t weak! He wasn’t sick and he wasn’t weak, he couldn’t be, he was so, so good, he’s always been so good and-

_ SMACK _

Patrick staggered backwards, hand clutched to his burning cheek, tears flowing freely. “WAS FÄLLT DIR EIN?! DIE SEHEN DICH, DIE BRINGEN DICH WEG!!! VERSTEHST DU?! DIE BRINGEN DICH WEG!!!“ Patrick’s head was ringing, everything hurt from the sheer force of his mother shaking him like he was an apple tree in the autumn, with a last piece of stubborn fruit still hanging out of reach. He needed to stop crying. He wasn’t weak, he  _ wasn’t weak!!! _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so... yeah. Different times, folks. Different times.
> 
> Thanks for reading, you can leave your angry comments on my tumblr scmi-sweet or here, I'd really appreciate it


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello hello this is me procrastinating, I hope you like it, I do!
> 
> thanks to snitchesandtalkers as always, she puts up with more of me than anybody should have to  
> also thanks to everybody commenting you really keep this going

It wasn’t exactly a  _ nice _ area of town, that was something Pete had picked up on already. Everything was sort of shabby, re-building and renovations were in no way subject to any artistic merit, there wasn’t even an attempt at making the place look pleasant. It would do though and in all honesty, anything was better than the barracks. At least you could make the inside look like home when you lived in a concrete block.

The third floor was… quite a way up. He’d actually planned on doing this as though he was just asking for a Homecoming date, gravel against the window and whatnot, but not even he could throw that high. He’d have to resort to doing this the boring, normie way and ring the doorbell or… well, worth a shot right?

The loud whistle pierced through the night, making even Pete himself jump and probably waking quite a few people in the surrounding apartments. He didn’t care, he was doing this the American schoolboy way or not at all.

Pete could see the light streaming from the window he was focussing on, he  _ knew _ his target was awake. He  _ had _ to react, right? He shoved his fingers back between his lips and blew through them again. A dog barked somewhere. It was eerily quiet for a Friday night in a major city.

A shadow appeared at the window and Pete already felt the smile being painted across his features. It didn’t take long before the window swung open and a rather annoyed-sounding voice hissed “ _ Peter, what the hell are you doing? _ ” Pete couldn’t make out much, but the messy hair stood out against the light of the room behind it and it made him smile. He could picture Patrick’s expression without having to see it, his brow furrowed in a frown, his mouth hanging open slightly, his eyes blazing with badly executed anger.

“I wrote a goodbye note in lipstick on your arm when you passed out!” he began his speech, calling it up to the open window, so barely out of his reach it could only be mocking him.“I can’t commit to a thing be it heart or hospital!” Patrick shifted a little, his silhouette casting a shadow over Pete.

“What the fuck are you on about?”

He wasn’t going to give up. This was his Romeo moment, he wasn’t going to let anybody ruin it, especially not an angry Juliet.

“Come hell or high water when I’m feeling hot and wet!” He was somewhat surprised nobody had dragged him off the street yet or maybe thrown something at him. Like rotten fruit. Or a brick.

“Best friends, ex-friends to the end, better off as lovers!”

“What does that even  _ mean _ ?!”

“And I cast a spell over the East to make you think of me the same way I think of you.” Pete paused. He’d like to be able to say it wasn’t for dramatic effect, but that was the very intention. That and the deafening silence, no snide remark was made, no quick comment on the utter cringe worthiness of white America.

“This is a love song in my own way, happily ever after below the waist…” he trailed off, grin that had been so securely plastered onto his face no longer there. It had slipped off with the words of a much too early confession but, fuck, if this kid wasn’t worth an attempt…

“Good night, Pete,” the words were ones of rejection, but somehow… somehow they didn’t feel like it. Pete thought he could hear a smile in them. “I’ll see you next week, yeah?” The window shut again and the light dimmed as a pair of flimsy curtains Pete knew to be red was pulled across them, blocking Patrick from view. Nonetheless, Pete stayed, he stood on the street, staring up to that little third floor window until it turned completely black.

He couldn’t stop smiling as he walked down the street painted golden in the artificial light of the streetlamps overhead.

Next week. It was Thursday. That wasn’t too long, he could do that. He could do next week.

 

 

 

“Sergeant Wentz!” Great. Just great.

Pete set down the weight he’d been lifting and forced himself to not look like he was about to commit murder when he turned to face his superior.

“First Sergeant Walker.” He knew, he  _ knew _ that whenever Walker referred to him by his rank, he was mocking him. Ah yes, the idiot who spent 17 years in the army and got a grand total of four promotions. Not that Pete cared much. It didn’t matter which title was slapped before his name, all that mattered was that he was here.

“Nice to see you’re doing something productive… for once.” Pete just sighed, seeing as that was all he could do without getting into trouble.

“Yes, First Sergeant, I’m terribly lazy and a waste of space, I know. What do you want?” Had he come to just antagonize him? Wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe he could make a snide remark about the stain on Pete’s top, the one he hadn’t had the energy to wash out, or insult his mother, possibly, that wouldn’t be a first, either. His hair was also a popular target, he should really cut it again, just as not to make it  _ too _ easy.

“Kennedy has sent advisors to South Vietnam.”

It took a moment for Pete to compute the sentence he’d just heard. He’d been expecting insult and injury, not bad fucking news. Not… not this. They’d only just got over one scare, why would they… why…

“Quit acting like a drowning fish, you look pathetic.” Pete managed to snap his jaw shut, firmly biting down on his tongue in the process. A metallic tang filled his mouth.

“It’s a… well, kind of a big deal, but I’m sure you, you know that and… don’t ask why I’m telling you, dude, I probably shouldn’t, but... well… I don’t like you much, but…”

South Vietnam. Fucking South Vietnam. Not all soldiers were smart. In fact, the lack of brain power was the reason a lot of them were here in the first place. Not Pete. Pete had always suspected that there would be more than one front in this, well, anybody who didn’t was an idiot. They’d all forgotten Korea too soon. And if Kennedy had started sending the military to Vietnam…

“I’m just telling you…” when Pete was brought back to reality, Walker had leaned in so close it made him jump, “we all know you have a sweetheart over… in the East and… well, maybe you should… should think about getting her over here… just an idea.” 

He wasn’t used to sincerity in Walker’s eyes, not at all, and he didn’t think to ask why he cared, why he was suddenly showing kindness, in fact, he didn’t say or do anything, just stood in the courtyard in front of his abandoned weights, staring at the ground.

If they’d sent military advisors to Vietnam then… well, maybe the situation on the eastern front wasn’t so  _ fine _ after all.  _ Military advisors _ – in Pete’s experience – was a fancy way of saying  _ war _ .

The domino effect.

One country falls under the hand of communism, they all do. Korea, Vietnam, Japan… The German Democratic Republic… the world.

Pete did his best to shift the anxiety gradually taking hold and picked up his discarded weight off the ground.

 

 

 

“Ihre Augen sind schlechter geworden.” Patrick groaned quietly as he leaned back and squeezed his eyes shut. They were hurting. His head was hurting. Everything was hurting. Fuck, as if  _ anybody _ could read letters from that far away!

“Sie brauchen ne neue Brille.“ Fuck, as if Patrick could afford a pair of glasses right now?

“Kann ich mir nicht leisten, ich-"

“Ihre Versicherung zahlt die.” Patrick stared at his ophthalmologist, open-mouthed and frowning. His insurance? Paid for glasses? Since when? He’d got a deal on the last ones, one lens had been financed by them because his sight was so hopelessly shit, but… but to have his fucking insurance pay for a pair of glasses? He must have misunderstood…

“Moment, für… für ein Glas? Oder… oder…”Beide. Das neue Versicherungsprogramm zahlt Ihnen beide Gläser. Ist ja auch sinnvoll, ein Glas bringt Ihnen nicht viel.” He couldn’t believe it. Glasses were fucking expensive, he‘d put off this visit as long as he’d been able to, fully aware that he needed new ones, but also aware of how restricted his income was since he’d been limited to playing in East Berlin. But this… this changed the argument, of course.

“Ich verschreib Ihnen ne neue stärke, gehen Sie einfach zum Optiker runter, der macht Ihnen die Brille. Manche Gestelle kosten extra, lassen Sie sich da beraten…” Patrick nodded, dumbfounded, and took the prescription off his doctor, thanking him with a handshake before skipping off to the optician’s. He had to admit, the prospect of being able to fucking see again was quite promising.

She was friendly, helped him pick the least ugly of the three frames covered by his insurance and assured him the glasses would be ready in two days. Saying it was a small relief would be a lie.

“Hallo, Herr Stumph!”

“Patrick, bitte!”

“Natürlich…” the old lady seemed out of breath. Patrick still wasn’t quite sure if she lived one or two floors above him, but she was nice enough, brought him cake sometimes, had asked about the gentleman who she occasionally spotted strolling through his flat behind him or bumped into on the stairs. She didn’t seem to mind that Patrick’s late-night cries weren’t shared with a girl.

“Ich fühl mich frech nachzufragen aber… du hast nicht zufälligerweise noch Kaffee, oder? Ich bezahl dich natürlich dafür…“ Patrick wanted to object. He could barely survive without coffee and he was down to his last bag with no promise of being able to re-stock anytime soon. But Frau Winter had always been nice to him, always brought him good food, let him nick her kitchen appliances on occasion and hadn’t reported Pete to the Stasi yet, so…

“Nicht mehr viel, aber ja, wie viel denn?“ He was already halfway to the kitchen.

“Meine Tochter und ihr Mann kommen vorbei… aus Dresden, hab sie schon länger nicht gesehen…” Patrick was pretty sure this story was the prelude to his goodbye to his well-guarded coffee.

“Und um sie zu sehen, ist mein Sohn auch da und der bringt seine Freundin und-”„Frau Winter,” Patrick gently interrupted her ramblings, “ich hab noch ungefähr 150 Gramm. Reicht Ihnen das?“ The old woman paused and chewed on her bottom lip as though she was embarrassed to say yes. She nodded sharply. Patrick tried to ignore the way his heart dropped as he plucked the little bag out of his cupboard over the sink.

“Wie viel schuld’ ich dir denn?” He spotted the little purse shed dug out of the pocket on her apron and shook his head.

“Passt schon. Solang Sie niemandem von Pete erzählen, schulden Sie mir garnichts.” He said it as though it was a light-hearted comment. It really wasn’t. he depended on his neighbours’ silence.

He’d been writing a lot. There wasn’t much else to do, really, it was too cold to go out and all his friends were in the West or at work. It wasn’t a Pete day, either. They didn’t see each other much, not as much as Patrick had hoped they would when he’d suddenly appeared on his doorstep in the middle of the night. It had been Patrick, though, who’d suggested they only meet in public, among other people when nobody would be able to pick out the American that kept throwing much too meaningful looks towards the German. Pete hardly ever came to his apartment. It was still lonely, his bed was still cold when he crawled into it at night. At least he could hear Pete’s laugh and see the sparkle in his eyes when he smiled and hold his hand, if only beneath a table. Fuck, this would all be so much easier if he weren’t a fucking American.

He had about half an album done. This one was pretty guitar-heavy. His last one hadn’t been so much, he must have been feeling particularly melancholic writing that one for it revealed the folk influence his dad had had on him… Patrick tried not to think about his dad. Wasn’t hard, really, seeing as he hadn’t been able to make many memories with him. Small mercies.

Maybe the Rock’n’Roll vibe was down to Pete. It would make sense, it was what was on his mind the most. He needed Andy to come over for some drums, he wanted to test the sound before he went to an effort of booking a studio… not that he had the money right now, but if he saved up for another couple of months, he could manage to get some quick sessions in there. Wouldn’t take him much more, anyway, he was a first take kinda guy. The bigger problem, really, was the live band. Sure, he could play all the instruments himself, but he could hardy record all the bits separately and then magically merge them together now, could he?

By the time Patrick’s stomach started grumbling, it was already 9pm. He yawned, despite not really feeling tired, but his eyes were heavy nonetheless.

He could make Ratatouille, well, something resembling Ratatouille but minus the Courgette and Aubergine because he didn’t have any, surprise, surprise. But he had red peppers and tomatoes he could turn into a sauce and Onions and maybe if he threw a few mushrooms into the mix, he could kid himself that this was enough to make possibly the most basic dish ever invented by man.

He made a mental note to check the stores tomorrow. Maybe, by some miracle, he’d find some more coffee.

 

 

 

 

“Honestly, Pete, do you ever do anything?” Maria tutted as she wiped the table around his elbows.

“I mean I fuck your cousin so…” he knew he’d made a mistake in saying that the second she whacked him across the head with the flannel she’d just been using to clean the bar with. Gross. She turned back to her work as though nothing had happened.

“I dunno, I just… there’s not much of a point, is there? I mean if war  _ does _ break out, the fuck am I gonna do about it?” It was something that did plague him, the feeling of utter helplessness. War made you feel more disposable than anything else and anybody who said otherwise was lying to themselves and a bunch of starry-eyed kids ready to get snatched up in the death and destruction of it all. Utter bullshit.

“Fight? Like everybody else?” Yes. The obvious answer. Pete sighed heavily.

“Done that before. Don’t really have a strong desire to do it again.” The sound of wood scraping across wood made Pete shudder and next thing he knew, the short, blonde woman was sitting opposite him, elbows leaning on the freshly cleaned table. She had Patrick’s eyes. And mouth.

“You never say… what you did during the war?” She smacked his hand when he began carving into the soft wood with his thumbnail to try to avoid the question. It wasn’t… really something he wanted to revisit. Too much rotting flesh. Not enough sunflowers.

“What did you do?” he decided to ask instead of giving an actual answer. Maria leaned back with a shrug.

“I was a nurse. Looked after the kids you hurt. Looked after some of yours. Don’t try to make it sound harmless, I know how war was like. I saw it.” Pete didn’t want to think about the kids he might have hurt. He’d never… never shot anybody, not on purpose but… but he’d hurled grenades across battlefields and… and in those moments where it’s you or them, well…

“I was, uh, I was a liberator.”

Maria just raised an eyebrow. When he mentioned it back home, where people had been safe and nobody had had bombs dropped on their heads and nobody’s neighbour had been dragged out of their home in the middle of the night and nobody had seen a labour camp, he was met with adoration. The hero who’d freed the weak from the iron grip of the Nazis. None of them asked how quiet it had been or how few of the people left behind had been fully human or how Pete had felt when he’d emptied his stomach into an elder bush beside the church. Maria didn’t ask either. But nor was she impressed. She just sat and stared at him, waiting for the rest of his story.

“In… in Flossenbürg, do you know it?”

“Just because I’m German doesn’t mean I know all the camps, Peter.”  _ Peter _ . Yes, the Stumphs had a habit of calling him by his full name when he crossed a line.

“Sorry, I uh… yeah. That’s what I did.”

She still said nothing.

After what seemed like forever, though, she scoffed, her eyes rolled and Pete felt condemned.

“You think I’m dumb? Because I’m a woman, maybe? You’re not a hero, Peter, none of us are. We all did fucked up shit. I know you did kill people because it was war. You were only a boy. You were scared. I know scared boys. They do stupid shit.” And Pete would be lying if he said he wasn’t taken aback. No questions about Flossenbürg or the victims or the Nazis or any of that. Of course not. She’d lived it herself. Instead, he was just a scared boy.

She was right.

He had been.

“When we… when we got there, most of them had gone…” he began, slowly, hesitantly, “they’d stared their death marches, it was too late. We, uh… we kept finding bodies along the way and… and people dying or, like… it wasn’t…”  _ nice _ , of course it wasn’t nice, she knew that.

“The worst thing was the smell. I dunno, you… I don’t have to tell you what a rotting corpse smells like I… I presume, I… well, yeah. And the people, they… were barely people, I mean, they didn’t  _ look _ like people, they were just…” he trailed off, not being able to find the right words to describe it, what he had seen, the skeletons sitting on the floor, unmoving, soundless, staring at him with dead eyes…

“Empty.” Maria’s words surprised him. He’d never seen her express empathy, not really. she was a good person, he was sure of it, but strong. Empathy wasn’t strength. Her hands were holding his gently, comfortingly. Like a mother. Pete wondered if she’d learned that from cradling dying boys to sleep.

“Just… be glad you didn’t find Patrick there…” Pete’s head snapped up so quickly he thought he might have given himself whiplash but before he could pose the question dying to fall from his lips, the door crashed open.

“Pete!” Travie bellowed, “dude, if you leave your post before you’re due one more time, Fredrick is gonna slap an AWOL on you, he’s sick of it!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks! please leave comments and kudos, that would be rad. my tumblr is scmi-sweet pls don't hesitate to yell at me there


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so it's..... been a minute
> 
> this is down to the fact that I am up to my eyeballs in work i promise i've not lost momentum on this. to make up you get a double-length chapter! So uh thanks for being patient
> 
> thanks snitchesandtalkers for being fantastic in general but also with this fic

November 17 th 1961

“Ist der Platz frei?” Patrick smirked to himself. The accent was so cute, he could eat him right up.

“Klar, setz’ dich.” He gestured to the empty chair next to him and Pete collapsed into it, his hand wandering onto Patrick’s lap to squeeze his leg briefly before he retracted it again. Nobody could see.

Pete’s friends followed closely, it was the same ones as last time, Travie, who’d raised an eyebrow when they’d last met a week prior, and the one with the curly hair. Joe, his name was. He was nice enough, Patrick liked him, bit of a complainer, but he was funny and had something of a dog about him. He seemed trustworthy. And Andy liked him. He was there again, too. In fact, Patrick did a considerable amount with Andy, especially since he’s learned about his love for drumming. He was good at it, too. He’d played the little set in Patrick’s bedroom as he accompanied with a guitar and tried to figure out some vocal melodies once and they’d enjoyed it so much, their little sessions had almost become a regular thing.

Andy was a good guy. Patrick suspected he knew about him and Pete, he’d thrown them too many meaningful looks, lingered a little too long on a pair of underpants Pete had left once, like he knew the red boxers weren’t Patrick’s. If he knew, however, he didn’t comment on it. Patrick was rather grateful, he didn’t want to have that conversation. It was hard enough as it was.

“I fucking hate the way the trains go, man!” of course, that was Joe, “Like, once every half hour once it gets past midnight? Fuck that! I don’t get why we always have to come to this place, anyway,  that Pickelhaube pub thing is fine and that’s, like, just around the corner!” Patrick was pretty certain the dude was still complaining as he drank his beer.

“Pete likes this place,” Travie commented, eyes getting caught on Patrick for a moment.

“I do. They make a great blonde.” Patrick could feel himself go bright red. Okay, Pete was talking about the beer but not really. he knew Travie had picked up on it, too, going by his slightly disturbed expression.

“Hey, weren’t you at our table last time, too?” Patrick looked up at joe, brows raised in as innocent an expression as he could muster. Joe was frowning, was this guy always confused? He glugged down the rest of his beer and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his uniform, his blue eyes never leaving Patrick, even for a second. Patrick shifted uncomfortably and couldn’t help but glance at Pete who, thankfully, had thought ahead. Or maybe he was just smarter.

“Oh, yeah! Thought I recognised you! What was it, Leon?” Patrick wanted to smile and blush and do all the stupid things, but he made himself raise an eyebrow instead.

“Patrick.”

“Ah. Sorry, Germans… you all kinda look the same… no offence!”  Wow. Well, he was really pushing it! Patrick leaned on his underarm and drew a deep breath. His attempt to seem offended. What was Pete gonna do?

“I just mean… the blonde thing…” Pete bit his lip, playfully, Patrick knew that much. He was teasing, the little shit.

“Oh yeah? Well, Andy here is German. What did you say your surname was?” He tried to play along, he knew he wasn’t coming off as particularly natural, but he hoped he could seem at least a little convincing.

“I didn’t,” oh, he hadn’t, had he? Patrick cocked an eyebrow.

“Oh? I could have sworn otherwise. Well, will you tell me?” Pete made out as though he was considering it, his eyes scanning Patrick up and down, probably mentally undressing him and Patrick touched his shin with his foot. Just ever so slightly, just enough to wind Pete up.

“Wentz.”

“Ah, there you go, German name.” Patrick winked – what Pete could do, he could, too – and finished his beer.

“I like you,” Pete commented with that slur to his voice that drove Patrick mad. Mmmh, Patrick knew just how much Pete liked him, a not-so-distant memory involving his tongue pressed up against his own ass surfaced in Patrick’s brain. Oh, he’d like to hear Travie’s opinion on that.

“Thank you. I try my best.” Pete was about to add onto that, but his lovey-dovey expression quickly faltered as Andy reminded him that they weren’t the only two people in the room.

“So, Pete, uh… how’s the army?”

 

 

 

 

January 8 th 1962

“OOH LAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAND OF THE FREEEEEEEEE AND THE HOOOOOOOOOOME OF THE BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAVE!!!!!!!!!” Loud applause smattered through the pub when the soldiers finished their anthem. Somehow, Pete had ended up on the table with Joe’s arm around his neck. He wasn’t sure when exactly his beer had spilled all over him. He wasn’t drunk, he swore it, this was only his third! Three beers weren’t bad! He’d watched Patrick down more than that in less time and be just fine, he was fine, this was fine, he was… fuck, was that the floor??

An OOOOOOOO rang off the walls as Pete was shamed for his tumble by what must have been 15 other soldiers surrounding them. His palms hurt. And his knees. He stared down at his hands like he couldn’t quite believe they were his, then looked up to the table Joe was still standing on, doubled-over with laughter, and a huge grin split his face.

He’d fallen off! He’d fallen off a table! He was so silly! He looked around at his laughing brothers -  Travie, Urie, Hopper, Matthews, that ginger kid – their faces all scrunched up and happy because of him. It felt kinda cool, bringing something positive to the table. To the table! Haha!

Then his eyes fell on the man sitting on a stool in the corner of the room, a dark guitar balanced on his lap, he, too, was smiling, but he was also shaking his head. Like he hadn’t expected anything else. Pete grinned at him, a big, gleaming grin because he was so pretty and – oh yeah – he was his, the watch on his wrist testament to that. Patrick set his guitar down next to him, got up and walked… right past Pete! He just left him lying on the floor and walked past! Where was he going? Where was h- oh. Bathroom. Okay. Well, that just wasn’t on! He should help Pete up!

Somehow, using a method only God knows of, Pete managed to unstick himself from the ground and stumble across the room, slamming into the door before remembering he had to use the handle and practically falling into the room behind because, oh yeah, doors opened!

Patrick was standing at one of the urinals along the wall, his back to Pete, not really leaving much interpretation as to what he was doing. Pete did his best to stay in a straight line as he staggered over to him, wrapping his arms around Patricks waist without warning so his cheek was pressed against the back of his head.

“JESUS, fuck, Pete!”

Side note: Making people jump while pissing isn’t a good idea.

“Mmm sorry”, Pete mumbled into the denim jacket, “I jsss missed you.” He tightened his already vice-like grip around his boyfriend and tried to pull him closer, which just resulted in Patrick elbowing him in the ribs.

“You couldn’t wait two seconds?! I’m a bit busy here!” He sounded annoyed… pretty annoyed, really. Pete pouted and tried to snake his hand lower, his way of making it up to him, but Patrick snapped at him to _ fuck off and let me go in peace _ , so, not wanting to push him any further, Pete untied himself from around his waist and took a step back.

“Thank you! Can you like… wait outside or something? It’s kinda w-”

“Flossenbürg kind of smelled like this…” Maybe, had he not been so completely beside himself, Pete would have picked up on Patrick’s shoulders tensing and realized that, well… he’d never really spoken about this. Ever.

“No, actually it kinda…. It smelled worse… sorta, I… dunno… wasn’t nice…” Pete had never talked about it in detail. Sure, Patrick knew about the camp, he knew Pete had been there, but he’d never talked about it… and Patrick didn’t really want to hear it.

Pete, however, was oblivious to this.

“It’s like… like deeeaying cor.. corpses are not great… yanno?” Patrick had given up on trying to take that leak and was standing in front of his boyfriend, arms crossed, brow furrowed. “I wasss…. The people there were… dunno, they were sick and… ugh… it stank so bad….so… mmh, wasn’t nice…”

Patrick was so pretty, his eyes looked green in the artificial light that glowed behind Pete. He was so adorable, Pete just wanted to squish him.

“Youuuu’re…. you cute… haha…” Pete giggled lightly and tried to tap the tip of Patrick’s nose, missed and nearly took out his eye instead, “cuuute… can I kiss you?” Patrick hesitated for a second, but nodded eventually and Pete somehow managed to make their lips meet, even if it was only for a few seconds.

“You should go back outside,” Patrick muttered. His voice sounded heavy and a bit off. Pete thought about commenting on it, realized he didn’t have the energy, gave Patrick a last peck on the cheek (ear) and meandered across the room and back out into the pub.

 

 

 

 

February 9 th 1962

Patrick rolled his eyes at his stupid grin. Pete knew it was stupid because everything he did around Patrick was stupid. He couldn’t help it, he was a fool in love. He didn’t know why, Patrick just looked particularly beautiful casually leaning against the wooden wall at the back of the bar, hands in his pockets. Pete just had to kiss him. Only quickly, of course, he didn’t think anybody saw them…. He sure as hell hoped so. All he wanted to do was wrap his arms around this little guy who was so much more than just his boyfriend and hold him close, but…

 

There was the minor factor of him being American. He didn’t want to risk it.

So instead, Pete silently mouthed  _ I love you _ – with his back to the room, nobody would ever know – and grinned, which was the reason for the eye-roll.

“Okay,” Pete shrugged, “take it back, you’re gross.” He turned round and leaned against the wall next to Patrick who was quietly chuckling to himself.

It was just them today. Well, some of Pete’s colleagues, but he didn’t even consider them brothers, that was how little he knew them. So, effectively, just them concealed in a crowd of mud green uniforms that hopefully hid them from sight. Pete still couldn’t help but think Patrick was being paranoid. He’d outright forbidden him from visiting at his flat, said it was too risky, said he didn’t trust the guy living across the hall. As if every fucker was gonna report him to the Stasi, what did they have to gain from that?

Pete had taken to slipping him notes though. Letters were a no-go. Obviously. Ominous letters from the west were  - according to Patrick – the reddest of red flags the red state could ever have waved in their red faces.

Again. Ridiculous. If Maria sent them, they were just family letters, who cared? As if they were going to open family letters.

 

He leaned over, intent on slipping Patrick a sneaky little peck, but was met with wide, apologetic eyes. 

 

“We can’t, Pete…” 

“Can I come back with you?” Pete asked loud enough for Patrick to hear but not loud enough for it to reach spying ears and loose tongues. Of course, that elicited a heavy sigh. Patrick didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. Pete knew the answer. He turned round so he could look at Patrick, the warm light coating his hair in a layer of gold and painting his eyes a colour to match. Pete caught his bottom lip between his teeth and just stared, not very subtly, at the man who would be his husband by now if the world were fair.

Pete’s voice dropped even lower, just in case Patrick was right, just in case some idiot in a trenchcoat with an upturned collar carrying a briefcase that looked more important than it was was following him. He couldn’t risk his next words falling on the wrong ears.

“Come back with me.”

Patrick glanced around the room with a frown, then turned to him. Worry was lining his face. Worry. Regret. Remorse. Something tragic Pete couldn’t quite place. He just wanted to wrap his arms around him.

“I wish I could…” Pete barely caught his words over the roar of the table nearest to them. All the better, really. Not words to be heard by anybody else.

“I wish I could but… fuck, Pete, you have no idea, I… you have no idea what it’s like.” He was about to open his mouth to ask more, to beg for clarification, what he didn’t have an idea about, but Patrick cut him off with a sharp shake of his head that clearly said not here. Before Pete could protest, Patrick had pushed himself away from the wall and strolled across the room, settling down next to a girl with dark hair, an upturned nose and a face that spelled mischief. A colleague, Patrick had explained, she played the piano or something. He was trying to get a band around him. Pete knew why. He wasn’t stupid. He knew Patrick had more talent in his little toe than any of his bandmates had in their whole bodies. Combined.

He was trying to get a travel permit. Pete wasn’t quite sure why on that one, he hoped it was Patrick’s method of escaping this place that was steadily becoming less and less bearable. At first, Pete had been able to pretend the guards constantly patrolling the streets near the wall didn’t exist, but much as he tried, those ugly, ugly bricks still lined the border.

Nothing had happened. Oh, sure, the whole calamity with the tanks had stirred some attention, but that was less due to what the Soviets were doing in the GDR, more for fear of war breaking out.

For Pete, there wasn’t much difference.

Patrick wasn’t with him either way. though he had to admit, he would so hate to meet him when they were both knee-deep in mud and corpses.

 

 

 

 

March 7 th 1962

The door opened just as far as the chain still closed across it would let it. Pete just about caught sight of an eye peeking through the gap and some messy hair over it. It was ridiculous how even that was enough to make his heart leap.

It took Patrick a minute to register who he was seeing in the dim light of the stairwell, but when he did, he groaned. “Pete… please, I told you…”

“You’re sick,” he protested, “Andy told me, you’re sick.”

“Yes, yes I am, but I’m not fucking dying or anything, which I might if I’m caught with an American, no, worse, an American  _ soldier  _ in my flat.” Pete knew his protests weren’t because he was unwelcome. On the contrary, he saw the smile split Patrick’s face every couple of weeks. However often he could find an excuse to hop over the border for a beer which was… a lot less common than he’d like.  Lewis – his boss – had already had a stern word with him about slacking and clearing off at any opportunity when he really, really shouldn’t make himself so utterly unavailable the entire time. He’d then thrown some fancy words around, waved a piece of paper in Pete’s face, hurled some threats at him and that had been that. It didn’t matter. Nothing fucking mattered. They could all die tomorrow and that wasn’t even an exaggeration.

“I don’t care, Patrick, I don’t care whose great-grandson was dragged out of their home in the dead of night or which neighbour was visited by the police last week or who got arrested at the border, I don’t. Care. You’re sick. I’m gonna look after you because I love you and that’s what I’m supposed to do. Are you gonna let me in or do I have to kill every fucking Russian with my bare hands before that happens?” Patrick shot him a glare – as best he could with one eye – before slamming the door in his face.

The clatter of a chain sounded against the wood and then the door opened again, just enough for Pete to be able to slip in.

Of course the first thing he did was take Patrick’s snotty, swollen face in his hands and kiss him. On the forehead. No need to catch whatever evil rendition of the flu he had himself.

“You woke me up”, Patrick muttered. He looked like it. His face had a lovely sleep crease across it.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, d’you wanna go back to bed?”

“No, I wanna dance a fucking tango.” Pete knew he shouldn’t laugh when Patrick was pissed because that usually lead to Patrick getting really pissed and that was never fun. Last time, there were tears and they’d neither been his nor Patrick’s.

He dragged himself back into his bedroom, but Pete disappeared into the kitchen. He boiled a kettle and allowed himself to cut up one of the two lemons lying around in the rather sad-looking fruit bowl. He should have thought to bring apples, damn it… Pete cut the citrus into slices and plopped them into one of the large mugs Patrick kept on the lowest shelf of his cupboard. The second the kettle started whistling, Pete snatched it off the stove and poured the hot water over the lemons that, honestly, didn’t look all that fresh… best not question just how old they were.

Pete stayed as quiet as he could as he peered into the bedroom. Patrick was snuffling into his pillow, a towel lying beneath him – Pete decided not to question that right then and there – and his shirt off, which was odd simply because Patrick hated going shirtless. He’d rather go without pants, as Pete had discovered through careful analysis. The things you pick up on when you’re with somebody are rather odd.

“Patrick, sweetie?” He set the mug down on the nightstand and perched on the edge of the bed. Patrick’s face was scrunched up in discomfort. “You’ll get cold, it’s March and not a particularly warm one, like, you should…”

“I’ve got a fucking fever, you dick. I’m gonna die of like… baking if I… if I put any… fuck…” he whined his quiet lament up to the ceiling. Hot water was the wrong thing to make, then.

“You still need to stay warm…” Pete tried to argue, “even if it feels horrible, you won’t get better otherwise… d’you have any medicine?” Patrick’s scoff was all the answer he needed.

“There’s a drugstore literally down the street, Trick, why not?” he pressed his palm to Patrick’s forehead. He was burning up.

“Jesus fuck, you’re so hot…”

“Thanks.”

“You know what I mean. You need medicine.” Patrick whined like a little toddler. It was 12pm, the pharmacy would be closed now… but Pete knew he somehow had to get that fever down. Apparently, Patrick was trained in the art of mind-reading.

“My, uh… my mother always used to do this thing…” Pete’s ears piqued. Patrick never talked about his family, never. Fuck, he really must be sick… “I don’t… know if it… if it really works, but she’d… she’d wrap damp cloths around my legs…”

The snort Pete let out was totally involuntary, he promised. He just couldn’t help it. What, was this some dumb, German practice? Were they all this odd? Or was this a Stumph thing?

“Fuck off, Peter. I… ugh, she’d… lukewarm water, old sock, then a dishcloth, then a towel, around my calves. Can you… can you do that?” He was white as a sheet and suddenly all that cockiness had left him. “Please?”

It sounded stupid and there was no way in hell this would work, but Pete found himself wrapping Patrick’s legs in layers and layers of damp cotton. If it made him feel better, why not?

Patrick was breathing through his mouth, panting, almost, a layer of sweat was clinging to his skin and his eyes were firmly screwed shut. He was really fucking sick… Pete didn’t like it, the sight of his boyfriend so completely wiped out made him feel uncomfortable, uneasy. It was probably just the flu, he told himself, Patrick was probably right and he’d caught something annoying but relatively harmless. He’d seen too many sick people in his lifetime, though. He’d seen too many of them die because of something harmless. In different times and different circumstances, that was true, but that helpless feeling of watching somebody waste away because of a small cut was something that wouldn’t ever really leave.

After a few minutes, he removed the first layer, as instructed, and took to soothingly stroking through Patrick’s hair, whispering nonsensical words to calm him. He was shaking now. Pete removed the second layer. He’d been mocking the old German housewife method, and maybe he was imagining it, but when he pressed his hand against Patrick’s damp forehead again, it felt a little cooler than it had.

“can… you, can you stay? Please?” Pete nodded and fluttered a kiss against his brow, tasting the salt collecting there.

“I’ll stay.”

Pete’s eyes snapped open as a piercing shriek split his skull in half. At first, there were a few seconds of panic, the way it always is when something tears you out of your dreams, more so when that something is a horrendous sound not unlike a cat dragging its claws down a blackboard. After the initial shock, Pete realized the shrieking was the doorbell which, in all honesty, didn’t do much to settle the unease in his gut. He glanced at the clock on the wall. 8:30am. Patrick was fast asleep next to him, duvet half-kicked off in an attempt to keep himself cool. His face was shiny and sweaty and his hair was damp and he looked fucking awful.

The doorbell went again. Not knowing what else to do, and not wanting to wake Sleeping fucking Beauty, he slipped out of bed and tugged on the trousers and shirt he’d been wearing yesterday.

The apartment was still dark, all doors closed, no light escaping from the bedroom behind him. It made the pinprick of white shining through the spyhole look all that more ominous. Patrick never checked it, he knew. He was too small, couldn’t see without getting up in tiptoes, preferred leaving the chain on the door and relying on the metal links to keep him safe. Pete wasn’t that trusting.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Andy barked when Pete let him in. He didn’t throw him a second glance as he threw his coat over one of the hooks in the little alcove by the door.

“I’m looking after him. He’s sick.” It was a simple enough statement, but the judging look he got for it made his guts squirm.

“I know he is, I was the one who made him stay home yesterday, smartass. No, what the fuck are you doing here? You don’t belong here?”

“I belong with him.” Pete almost snapped at him. It was short, to the point and it ended that discussion, even if Andy sighed at Pete like he was a petulant child. He walked into the open bedroom before Pete could object, so he was left standing on his own, staring at the blue tinge of the room and not quite knowing what to do with their… guest.

“Patrick? How’re you feeling?” Andy had a hand pressed to his forehead.

“Fuck off.” Pete couldn’t help but smirk. He must be feeling better than he did last night, at least. His hair was dark and sticking to his forehead, but his cheeks were rosy-red rather than colourless as they had been. He’d obviously pulled the blanket up over his chest when Andy had walked in because it was covering him up to his chin. 

 

“I brought you medicine. You need to take it three times a day, yeah? And this” he brandished a little, yellow tube in Patrick’s face, “is to clear your lungs. You just smear it on your chest before bed. It smells good, I promise.” Patrick pulled a face, but nodded. 

 

“Thanks, I… I owe you…” 

 

“Nah, don’t be silly. I couldn’t leave you to fend for yourself. Didn’t know you were being nursed.” The corners of Patrick’s mouth twitched into a smile when his searching eyes fell on Pete, as though he’d forgotten his boyfriend was here for him. Pete winked at him. 

 

“I’ll be off again then!” Andy stood up and affectionately pattet the top of Patrick’s head. He seemed like a good guy. 

 

“You,” he jabbed Pete in the chest as he passed, “look after him. I’ve become quite attached to the little fellow.” Pete gave him a mock-salute “Yes, sir!” 

 

Unexpectedly, Andy pulled him into a hug. It threw Pete off for a second, until he felt a whisper against his ear, “he’s stubborn as a mule. He won’t take the medicine of his own accord. He’s not dangerously sick but he will be if he doesn’t look out for himself. Make sure he’s okay.” Pete frowned at Andy when he pulled away.

 

“How…”

 

“I was supposed to be a doctor before this mess,” Andy just shrugged, a shrug of missed opportunities. Yeah, Pete knew that feeling. 

 

“Thanks for… for helping him, I was scared he’d… he’d be all alone over here.” Pete felt a little jealous, he had to admit.  _ He  _ should be the one looking after Patrick, keeping him company, going home with him after a night out… 

 

Andy just nodded. Before he left the flat, he paused in the doorway, turning back to face him. “Hey, Pete… lying low is sometimes more obvious than just… pretending you belong, yeah?” Pete nodded. “Watch out, both of you.” And with that, he left.

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

“Mmmmmmhhmhmhhhmmmm.”

 

“Don’t you have ANY coffee?!” 

 

“Hmmmmmmmmm.”

 

“NONE at all?!” Pete shut the cupboard with a sigh, “you live like barbarians over here, I didn’t realize it was  _ this _ bad!” Patrick was glaring at him from the little table in the corner where he was nursing quite the headache, apparently. 

 

Well, if there was none of the good stuff at hand, he’d have to settle for… tea. 

 

Tea was okay. It was terribly European, just leaves in water, tasted kinda boring, not much to it, he didn’t get the hype. He’d had nice tea from like, India or something once, that had been good, it had been rich with herbs and spices, but Patrick’s saggy old leaves? Ugh, it would have to do.

 

Saggy, old leaves for two saggy, old men. 

 

“How you feeling?” Pete sat down opposite him, feet kicked up onto the table, earning him yet another glare.

 

“Fucking fantastic. Top of the world. Magnificent. Spectacul-” Pete supportively patted his shoulder as Patrick broke down into yet another coughing fit that shook his whole body and tore through his lungs and throat with an ugly sound. “Ugh.”

 

Ugh indeed. It had been almost a week now and Patrick  _ still _ couldn’t quite seem to shift that cough. The fever had gone  - thankfully - but Pete was still certain he’d throw up his lungs any second. He looked miserable, too; big, grey bags under his eyes and his nose was bright red and runny. 

 

“Oh, Trickster, what am I gonna do with you, eh?” Patrick sighed heavily, lamenting his lot. Pete popped a mug of saggy leaves and a bowl of oats in front of him. The spoon he laid out next to it was half-heartedly poking around the porridge-like mixture, the man holding it didn’t look very pleased. 

 

“Everything okay?” Pete muffled through a mouth of milky oats. The smile Patrick offered was one of politeness, he could tell. “What’s up? Come on, tell me…”

 

“I just…” Patrick experimentally sniffed at the little heap on his spoon as though he could actually smell anything through his blocked nostrils. “Hm… porridge isn’t my favourite, but it’s… fine, it’s fine, really, I can… it’s fine!” As if to prove his point, he shoved the helping into his mouth and smiled through the pain.

 

“Sorry, dude I… didn’t know…” There was something in that sentence that hurt a bit.

 

“It’s fine! I mean, how should you know, right? Really, it’s fine, it’s… as porridge goes, it’s good. Mmmh, nice!” Pete could practically see the tears he was crying on the inside. “I’ll… I’ll go shopping later and get some more stuff.” 

 

“No,” Pete insisted, “no,you're sick, you’re not going anywhere, it’s cold out still and… no.” He was met with a frown and what he identified as a suppressed eye-roll.

 

“Pete, we need food… I- I need to shop for two people, I don’t have anything in and-” Pete had noticed. Seeing as he’d been doing the cooking, he’d been observant enough to realize Patrick had literally a can of beans and some cabbage. Not even he could improvise well enough to turn that into something edible. 

 

“Patrick,” he interrupted, “I’ll go.” In return, Patrick raised his eyebrows until they were practically brushing his hairline, a look of bemusement settled on his face. 

 

“You? You’ll go shopping?” Pete rolled his eyes.

 

“I’m a grown man, dude, I do go grocery shopping, I know how it works. I’m not a complete fucking idiot, even if you think I am!” Fuck. He’d snapped. Pete quickly shook his head, dropping the irritated glare and tried to back-pedal. “I-I’m sorry, I’m not…”

 

“It’s fine,” Patrick just sighed, “yeah, you’re right, you… thank you.” A small smile graced his lips and he took one of Pete’s hands in his, bringing the knuckles to his lips. “I’ll write you a list, yeah? Just… so you know the sort of stuff I usually get. And… and you’ll need my money, right? Do you have Ostmark on you?” Pete could almost feel himself burning red. Well, if he were the sort of person to burn red, that was… 

 

“It’s fine, I’ll give you some. You probably really should get out of the house anyway,” Patrick added with a little chuckle. He was definitely right. Since arriving, Pete hadn’t really been outside the flat, too worried somebody would see, too scared to go out alone, not really knowing what to do… this was a good excuse to get some fresh air for longer than the twenty seconds it took to bring the rubbish out. 

 

He watched as Patrick dragged himself around the kitchen, scrawling his shopping list before getting his wallet out of the drawer in the hallway and fishing out some bills. 

 

“If you see anything you fancy, just… feel free to get it. I mean, you probably won’t but… yeah.” Pete stuffed the bills in the back pocket of the pair of jeans Patrick had leant him and slung the cotton shopping bag over his shoulder. 

 

“Hey, hold up!” Pete stopped, his hand already on the door handle, about to step outside,  _ finally _ , but Patrick came darting out of the kitchen. “Don’t you just leave me without saying bye, Wentz.” A little smirk was toying with the corners of his mouth and - it was probably dumb considering he was still sick - Pete couldn’t help but kiss it, gently, baerly a peck, but still… a kiss. It had been more than a month now. Pete just wanted to wrap him in his arms and crash their lips together and never let go, but- 

 

“Love you.” 

 

“Love you, too. I’ll be back ASAP.” Just before he closed the door, he caught Patrick’s “Don’t bother with the chocolate, it’s basically charcoal!”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Pete stood, clueless, in front of the veg. He felt really fucking dumb. Aubergines. Eggplant, as it was actually called. Big, purple, shiny… where the fuck were they?

 

“Excuse me!” The tall, skinny guy turned away from the shelf he was stacking to look at Pete. He seemed sort of tired… “Sorry, where can I find… ehm… wo sind… aubergines?” To his utter shame, the guy snorted. 

 

“‘Tschuldigung, ich bin nur… wir haben keine Auberginen. Kartoffeln, Karotten, Lauch, Gurken… alles, was hier wächst, aber Auberginen?” Ah. Okay. Pete sighed. 

 

“Mein, ehm… Freund, er hat… mir gegeben ein Liste… mit… hier steht “Auberginen”?” Skinny guy’s forehead scrunched into a frown and he leaned over Pete’s shoulder to squint at the illegible list clutched between his fingers. 

 

His voice dropped to something just above a whisper. “Grad nicht… kommen Sie am 21. wieder, da kriegen wir ne Lieferung, vielleicht ist was dabei… und Bananen gibts dann auch.” Pete couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at how shady and secretive this guy was being about fucking vegetables. And fruit, he supposed, but same difference, really. Come back in a week for eggplant, what the fuck… 

 

“Danke…” he muttered, trying not to sound a little freaked out by the whole situation. 

  
  
  
  


 

“Hey, sweetie I’m b-” The rush of water met his ears. Pete’s head instinctively turned to the left where the door to the bathroom was. He set the bags down next to the chest of drawers below the coathangers, slipped out of his boots and softly paced over the red and brown carpet. He pressed his ear to the door, but heard nothing but the rushing water. Shame. He’d sort of hoped Patrick would be up to no good in there, didn’t sound like it, though. Still he opened the door just wide enough to slip in and made sure to close it quietly. He could see Patrick’s silhouette through the shower curtain, fingers stroking through his hair, probably just soaping it up… Pete slipped off his shirt and trousers before tugging off his socks and eventually his boxers, freeing his already half-hard cock. What? It had been months, nobody could blame him!

 

Patrick either didn’t notice or pretended not to notice when the curtain was pulled aside and Pete climbed in the small shower. The water was way too fucking cold, it was practically freezing. He should be trying to warm up and push through this cold he was lugging around, and besides, Patrick’s showers were  _ always _ hot, he liked them burning hot, hot enough to turn his skin lobster-red. 

 

It was the way his body suddenly tensed up and he drew a sharp breath that Pete knew Patrick really had been oblivious to his appearance. Pete wrapped his arms around his stomach, settled his chin on Patrick’s shoulder and let his dick rest against the curve of his ass. 

 

“How’re you feeling, baby?” He pressed a kiss against Patrick’s temple, whose eyes were closed as he let his head fall back against Pete, arching his neck beautifully. Pete couldn’t help but nuzzle against it, letting his teeth nip at milky white skin. 

 

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered against Patrick’s ear, his warm breath making Patrick shudder. He let his hands drift over the expanse of wet skin, over his belly, over his chest, ghosting just shy of a nipple, up to his throat and down again until it brushed against his thigh. Patrick’s breathing picked up pace, his chest rising and falling visibly.

 

“I don’t want you to stop…” That was the go-ahead Pete needed. He sunk his teeth into the crook of his boyfriend’s neck, sucking a mark into the skin like he was a horny kid at homecoming, lapping over the angry, red mark again and again, all the while stroking over Patrick’s lower stomach and over his thighs, blunt nails painting patterns on sensitive skin, letting his fingers brush through ginger curls between his legs but never quite where he was slowly getting harder. 

 

Pete was a fucking tease and he was proud of it. Every second he could use to antagonize Patrick like this, he would. He knew he  _ actually _ enjoyed it, the suspense, the slow-burn, the dragging build-up that always lead to the best pay-off. The longer the wait, the better the high. Wasn’t that always the way?

 

“Pete…” his voice was low and breathy, eyes still closed, head still rolling against Pete’s shoulder. 

 

“Patrick…” there was a smile on his face and he was pretty sure that translated in his words. He stroked his fingers just shy of the base of Patrick’s dick, eliciting a keening whine from flushed, curved, pink lips. Pete wanted to nip at them, wanted to suck them into his mouth, wanted to bite down on the lower one, colour it even more vividly until it was saturated with lust and longing. But for that, he’d have to turn Patrick around and for now, he was perfectly happy nudging his cock against the crevice of his round ass. Actually, speaking of which… 

 

He slid his hands over and around Patrick’s trembling thighs, dragging his nails across soft flesh until he could press them into the backs of his legs. Pete cupped his frankly gorgeous ass, stroked his thumbs over the pale flesh, let his hands knead it and soothe it. Patrick had stretched out one of his arms to brace against the tiles. The water was getting colder.

 

Pete slipped one hand between his cheeks, making Patrick whimper yet again, and softly brushed over his hole with the side of his fingers, letting the tips just brush over his balls, barely any contact. He kissed below Patrick’s ear, tasting salty sweat even through the cold water of the shower, burning on his lips. 

 

“Pete…” There was an attempt at sounding threatening, Pete could tell, but it fell flat as he pushed a finger against him. Patrick gasped like a cliché when his finger slipped in, just the tip, the tight ring of muscle flexing around it, trying to adjust to the strange sensation. 

 

“Pete…” He slid to his knees, arm stretched up to press in the middle of Patrick’s back, urging him to bend forward. Patrick complied, cheek pressed against the cold tiles on the wall as Pete spread him open. All it took was from him to press the very tip of his tongue against Patrick, no more, and the little guy was moaning away, hands pressed flat against the wall either side of his head. Pete wished he could see his cock from this angle, wished he could see the curve of it, the way it would rest just below his belly button, red and angry and almost visibly throbbing with the need to be touched. Not just yet. 

 

Pete bit a mark into Patrick’s left cheek, making him tense, before licking over it to soothe the skin. He proceeded across his lower back, all the while nipping marks into easily bruising skin and licking over them as he went along. 

 

“Pete… please…” 

 

“Shhhh,” he whined as the sensation of Pete’s hot breath against him, “patience, honey. I haven’t seen you in so long… I need to get to know you again.” He pressed a kiss against his tailbone, hands still splayed across his cheeks, thumbs cheekily slipped between them but not touching quite where Patrick wanted. 

 

“Pass me the showerhead, baby boy… come on, there’s good…” oh, he  _ knew _ how much Patrick hated the belittling nicknames, knew they made him scowl and snap and insult… he also knew none of that was genuine, it was all in denial. Patrick fucking loved being held by the hand and babied through sex, not always, a lot of the time, he was a demanding bastard, but on his soft days… today was a soft day. 

 

“Thank you,” he muttered against the curve of Patrick’s ass as his fingers clenched around the cold metal of the thrumming showerhead. The water was so cold. 

 

Patrick spread his legs a little more, instinctively, probably, as Pete continued kissing along his back, his free hand slowly teasing against him more and more, building up gradually so he wouldn’t get bored before they even got started. He held him open as best he could with one hand and let the spray of the shower find its way home. Patrick tensed as the ice cold thundered against him, out of shock more than pleasure.

 

“Shh, relax, I’ll make it good, I promise.” Pete muttered words of reassurance, head thrown back to he could see the way Patrick glanced down at him over his shoulder.

 

“Please, Pete… please, I need… I need…” he sounded like he was going to cry from the strain of it. Pete gently pressed a kiss against his ass. 

 

“Tell me what you need, sweetheart. What do you need?” There was a second’s hesitation in which Patrick’s muscles tensed and loosened, he made little gasping noises and tried to find the words to verbalize his feelings… 

 

“Make me… make me feel good?” A smile toyed at Pete’s lips and he began pressing kisses against pale skin again. 

 

“Promise.” And with that, he decided he’d teased enough. Well, not quite. He wasn’t going to give him all he wanted, not just yet, but he held Patrick open with his thumb and directed the spray of water against the tight pucker of his ass. Patrick moaned quietly at the sensation, let Pete slip his thumb in and stretch him open carefully, working its way round the rim, loosening him up, all the while letting the water beat into him. When Patrick shifted impatiently, he withdrew, replacing his thumb with the middle finger of his right hand, not hesitating to let it slowly, but evenly, slide all the way in until he was surrounded by Patrick up to his knuckle. It would be wrong to say he crooked his finger searchingly, Pete knew exactly where to aim, knew exactly where that walnut-sized soft spot was deep inside his lover, but he liked to brush just shy of it, nonetheless. 

 

“That feel nice, baby?” He asked when he was two fingers in, stroking where Patrick wanted him to now, making him squirm and wince. 

 

“Y-yeah, fuck… fuck, yeah…” Pete smirked to himself at the sound of Patrick’s croaky voice echoing off the bathroom walls. He had more up his sleeve. 

 

The shower head lay forgotten at their feet, angrily spouting cold water at them, noisy but not nearly enough to block out Patrick’s cries as Pete licked into him, mouth pressed as firmly against his ass as was possible, tongue relentlessly diving into Patrick, working alongside two of his fingers that fluttered against that sweet spot inside, making Patrick writhe and shake from the tension, the hand holding him open steadily kneading his cheek, painting the skin red as he found every inch of pleasure Patrick’s body had to offer. His own cock was rock hard, aching, desperate to be touched, but he did his best to ignore it, to focus on Patrick and Patrick alone, whining, moaning, squirming beneath him.

 

“Fuck… fuck, Pete, I’m gonna… please, please I need to come, I need to…” he was babbling senselessly, half-spoken words Pete couldn’t pick up on between desperate renditions of his name and pleas he barely got past his lips. 

 

“Do it,” Pete muttered, pulled back just enough for him to be able to speak, “touch yourself.” He’d given the permission, but Patrick didn’t move his hand. “Go on…”

 

“Please, Pete, please, you… can you… I want you to… please, touch it, please…” He was so desperate, a thousand pieces of him trying to hold themselves together desperately as Pete tried to tear them apart. 

 

“Want me to touch what, baby?” Oh, he enjoyed the teasing. Especially since, a lot of the time, he was shot down before he could get going. 

 

“M-my… touch my cock, Pete, fuck, please, please touch my fucking cock! Aaah!” He cried out as Pete pressed firmly against his prostate, all to distract him from the other hand that had sneaked its way around the front of his body and wrapped around his hard, leaking dick. He’d hoped the distraction meant he’d still have some time, meant he’d still be able to get a few strokes out of Patrick, but the second he brushed over the head, that was it. Patrick came, long and hard, his entire body shaking so hard Pete thought he was going to collapse, shouting a litany of curses woven in with Pete’s name and - Pete thought - an “I love you”. 

 

He stood up, backs of his knees stiff and sore from where he’d been crouching down, and placed a soothing hand on the back of Patrick’s head. 

 

“You okay?” His eyes were screwed shut and he was trembling, forehead pressed against the cold tile, hands screwed into tight fists. His mouth was hanging open, the sweat of his brow dripping off his lips. Pete pressed a kiss against his temple, not one that spoke of sex and want, but gentle, loving, not doing at all what his still-hard cock was telling him to. Patrick nodded. Barely, but a nod nonetheless. He turned his face ever so slightly towards Pete and leaned into him a little. Pete took the hint. Ignoring the disappointment his dick was feeling, he wrapped his arms around Patrick and held him tight, as tight as he could without crushing him as his body still shuddered. 

 

“Sorry,” he said to the crown of messy, sweat-soaked hair, “was it a bit much?” 

 

“N-no”, Jesus, his voice was trembling almost as much as he was, the distinctive husk of illness even more noticable now his throat was raw with shouting, “just I…” he drew a shuddering breath and grabbed on to Pete’s shoulders, pulling him impossibly closer, his fingertips digging into golden flesh like they would never, ever let go. Pete kind of didn’t want them to.

 

“I don’t… want you to go.” The words were spoken quietly, barely audible over the water still gushing from the shower head. Pete put a hand to the back of Patrick’s head and stroked over his hair, as though he could protect him that way, protect him from his prying neighbours and the Stasi and himself. He couldn’t do that. Not from the other side. 

 

“I’m not going.” Patrick’s head snapped back so quickly Pete thought he might have given himself whiplash. His blue eyes were almost green in the orange light of the bathroom as he focused, for the first time since he’d got back, on Pete.

 

“You’re so beautiful,” he muttered, placing a gentle kiss on Patrick’s lips. 

 

“What do you mean, you’re… you’re not going? You… you can’t… you can’t stay, you…” Pete silenced him with another kiss. Damn him, he’d probably catch this rotten bug next. 

 

“I don’t care what the army says,” he said quietly, pressing their foreheads together, “they can go fuck themselves. I’ve wasted all my fucking life doing their shit, knee-deep in corpses of my friends, the stench of dead people in my nose, driving around a wasteland picking up people barely human anymore, sitting in fucking barracks waiting for the next big bag of dicks to commandeer me around, I’m  _ tired _ , Patrick. You’re the only fucking good thing that’s happened to me, I’m  _ tired _ of them, I’m not giving up the one good thing in my life because of the motherfucking US army.” 

 

He hadn’t known that was how he felt until he said it. But of course he did, of course it made sense. How else should he feel about them? Patrick’s lips were moving, but making no sound as his eyes were fixed on Pete’s mouth, as though they could see the betrayal they had just spoken. 

 

“You’ll… you’ll stay?” His voice was small, like he barely dared to ask. But he didn’t need to be afraid. Pete knew the answer.

 

“With you, always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments would be rad, my tumblr is scmi-sweet in case you wanna yell at me


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh..... hi..... it's been a minute
> 
> listen, I'm a busy bee, like, REALLY busy and on top of uni stuff, I have 27 other fics I'm working on and they all have a deadline so this ones gonna suffer a bit i am SORRY
> 
> now that's out of the way, I hope you stick around still lol and thanks snitchesandtalkers for reading over this and also just putting up with me in general

“SCHEISSE! Ugh… fick…”

“You okay in there?” Patrick glanced up to see a head popping around the doorframe as he sucked on the bleeding tip of his finger. Pete looked something between faintly concerned and totally apathetic at the sudden cursing.

“Fine, just… this fucking…” The broken glass received an angry kick like it deserved to be punished for the damage it had caused. Well, it did. it fucking  _ hurt _ . What didn’t hurt but might still warrant a kick was Pete’s little chuckle. The second it bubbled in his chest, Patrick’s head snapped back up for his glare to meet hot whiskey eyes.

“Hey, don’t come for me, I didn’t slice you open!” He was wearing that wide-eyed, open-mouthed  _ I’m-so-innocent  _  expression that usually meant he’d been up to no good. Patrick squinted his eyes at him before turning to the shattered jam jar on the tiles to his feet. There was red everywhere, lumpy, thick red covering the cream floor, staining it the colour of Patrick’s finger. What a waste…

“We could try and salvage it, fill it into a bowl or some shit?” Patrick’s hand was carefully closed around the sharp shards he’d gathered up already, pads of his fingers digging into the cold edges. Before he knew what was going on, Pete was suddenly crouching in front of him, his own rough hands picking tiny fragments out of the pool of red. Who knew if he could find all of them? Patrick shook his head.

“What if we don’t get all of it? And, like… dunno, eating glass doesn’t… doesn’t exactly sound, like smart or anything.” The way Pete’s mind worked over that was practically visible as his face scrunched up in thought.

“Hmm, you may have a point.” Patrick turned back to the mess on his…  _ their _ kitchen floor, a minefield of tiny knives. He sighed. “What a waste…” There must have been something defeated in his voice, or sad, even. Well, he was, sort of, it  _ was _ a waste of good, edible food, all because he was stupid, he was dumb and stupid and too fidgety and couldn’t ever just do things without turning them into a m-

“Hey, hey, none of that.” Pete’s eyes were swimming with concern and Patrick realized his mouth was hanging open as though he’d said all that aloud. The gentle kiss pressed to his forehead coursed through his whole body, warming him up from the inside out and he sighed again, happily this time. It was nice, having Pete there, it was nice. He didn’t have to come home to an empty flat after he’d been out working or even just meeting Andy or Victoria. He didn’t do too well on his own. He liked having company. The fact that it was Pete’s company, well, he’d take any added bonus.

Pete shovelled most of the damage into the rubbish bin with a dustpan, then turned to eliminating the rest of the evidence linking to Patrick’s clumsiness with a damp dishcloth. Patrick just watched from where he was kneeling on the floor an arm’s length away.

 

“Can we go out today?” Patrick wanted to go out. Since Pete had moved in, he’d not really left the house, there was no need to with his boyfriend insisting on doing the shopping and even taking the bins out. Sure, he went to work, but work wasn’t exactly what Patrick considered time out. He just missed the world from inside his three-room apartment.

But there was a frown on Pete’s face. Something concerned, something not very promising. Patrick put on his best puppy-dog eyes.

“Together? Like… go out together?” Patrick nodded, short, precise, unfaltering. He wanted to get outside before he went completely batshit. But Pete was hesitant, his mouth set into that dumb pout he did whenever something was bothering him, whenever his mind was churning something over. Patrick knew that look. He knew it from late nights, lying next to each other on the covers of his bed, sharing a silent cigarette as Pete stared into the deep blue of the night surrounding them. He knew it from concerned glances over his shoulder before stolen kisses on dimly-lit streets. He knew it from early mornings when concentration marked his face as he tried to eliminate the spot that had appeared on his nose overnight, like he was a teenager battling hormones, not gradually approaching 34. He knew it from when Patrick would tell him off for never putting his fucking clothes in the laundry basket, instead leaving them scattered around the flat for the laundry fairy to collect. He knew it from hours spent sitting by the window, watching the world pass on the street below, like a caged tiger, waiting for something to happen, waiting for feeding time. Patrick sighed.

“Dude, it’s been… two weeks? Like… come on, man, we can’t stay in here forever! If… if anybody was gonna notice, surely they… I mean, it would have happened by now, right?” Pete shifted uncomfortably, sitting back on his heels, eyes fixed on the clock above Patrick’s head.

“Don’t you wanna go out? Peter? Oooh, the big, scary outside…” he dropped forwards onto his hands so he could crawl towards him. Crawl, or prowl. He could practically see Pete’s ears prick with interest. He leaned forward just enough to lightly brush their lips together before rocking back, doing his best attempt at a wink.

“Come onnn, I’m so bored locked up in here…” Pete was no longer frowning, though that pout was still fixed on his stupid face. Patrick kissed him again. “Pretty please?”

“It’s risky…” there was no bite to his words, none at all. He had been convinced already, he just needed to know it. Patrick lifted himself to his knees and put his hands on Pete’s shoulders.

“I charged at the border for you… could have got me killed, y’know… this is nothing in comparison…” Pete sighed heavily.

“I wish you wouldn’t… use that against me it’s not fair, y’know.” Patrick nipped at his bottom lip before sitting back and pouting. He knew how to get his way, Pete was so easy to wrap around his finger.

“Look I… don’t… why don’t you go out? Just by yourself? You can… you can do whatever you like and I’ll… I’ll find something to do here? How does that sound?” Pete’s voice was nothing but soft, his fingers stroking over Patrick’s cheek nothing but gentle, his eyes nothing but kind. Patrick shook his head. 

 

“I wanna go out with you… like any normal couple.”

Deep down, he knew it wasn’t realistic, they couldn’t ever be a normal couple, there was too much dividing them, too many things they had no influence on. No matter how much he loved Pete - and he did, more than he had words to describe - they could never just… be. Still, he didn’t like the reply he got, not one bit.

“We can’t ever be normal, Trick… you know that.” His little smile of sympathy couldn’t do anything to stop Patrick’s disappointment. His shoulders sagged as air rushed out of his lungs and he dropped his eyes to the ground. They weren’t normal, they would never be normal. No matter how much they played happy families, they weren’t… good god, why hadn’t Pete been born with a pair of tits and in Stuttgart, Germany rather than Stuttgart, Arkansas. It could be so simple.

“You should still get out, though. Get some fresh air, it’ll do you good. Just for a couple of hours. Meet Andy or something.” Patrick didn’t want to meet Andy, he wanted Pete. He knew he was sulking but he didn’t care, he had every right to. “It’s not fair!” Pete was trying not to sigh, he knew, he could tell by the way his chest strained against the air in his lungs. Patrick glues his eyes to the floor next to his feet, arms crossed in front of him.

“How about this,” he began slowly, like he was bargaining with a kid who didn’t want to leave the park, “you go out now, get some exercise, stretch your legs a bit, tank some sun and when you come back, I’ll have dinner ready. Candles and all, how does that sound?” It sounded… rather marvellous. Patrick blinked up at his boyfriend.

“Like a… date?” Pete nodded, “exactly like a date, you’re my date tonight, I never went to prom, so this is prom minus the dancing, so a date.” He was grinning now, big, cheesy American grin to go with his big, cheesy, American announcement. Patrick’s eyebrows were gradually making their way up to his hairline, but the grin didn’t shift. How could he possibly refuse him? He tried not to let the little smile show when he shook his head and pushed himself off the floor.

“You have two hours,” he called as he pulled his jacket on and grabbed his keys, “I’m expecting to be sufficiently wooed.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Pete’s stupid mock salute made his cheeks flush and his smile widen even more as the door clicked in the lock.

Mid-March. Should it be this warm in mid-March? Not that Patrick was complaining, he was perfectly happy sitting on his park bench scratching the ears of a dog that had come bolting up to him for no apparent reason, only half-looking out for a houndless owner, but it was oddly warm. He leaned back, eyes closed against the sun. it was nice. He felt safe. He never felt safe anymore. Fuck, he loved Pete, he really did, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t cost him his last ounce of sanity. Every ring of the doorbell was torture, every stranger lingering outside their flat for too long torment, he never used the phone for fear of people listening in, a lot of the time he felt he couldn’t fucking breathe.

Now he could. The fresh air tore through his body, getting rid of the sticky, musty oxygen he’d been living off for what felt like months, the smell of trees and flowers and dog filled his nostrils, dispelling the scent of dimly lit pubs and cheap aftershave he’d become so accustomed to. The corners of his mouth twitched as a memory that felt like a lifetime ago crossed his mind. It had smelled like this, though it had been warmer, especially in the tangle of bodies. The smell of a lake, the sound of the water and the birds filling his ears almost drowned out the noise of breathy moans as they’d hidden away just behind the line of trees, where the sun seeping through the leaves and painted their bodies a picture of green and gold as desperate hands grabbed for straining cocks, sweat sticking them together like they were meant to be. Now, Patrick was certain they were. Pete always had been. He’d told him as much later that day, on a station platform between lingering looks that spoke of kisses they wanted to give but couldn’t. Not there.

Two years. No, longer, right? Three years this summer. Fuck, that meant… that meant it had been four years since he’d dropped his bag of apples. And still Pete hadn’t paid him for them… not money, anyway, which, honestly… he could kinda do with.

Pete didn’t have a job. He’d spent almost all his Ostmark he’d come over with and Patrick wasn’t getting paid any more than he had before. It was fine when he only had one mouth to feed, but now…

He’d not told Pete he’d been looking around for a different job. It hurt him, sort of. He loved his work, he loved music, he loved performing but factory work was more reliable, it was better paid, it was secure and honest. He would be tied to a schedule, shifts imposed by others, no longer the free spirit that got up at 3pm, shat out a song, then went to bed again. He’d have to wear a uniform and adhere to rules. But he needed the money if he wanted to keep Pete and he did.

The dog ran off.

Patrick tried to think of something else.

Maria. He worried about her, though he really needn’t, she was perfectly capable of looking out for herself, more so than he was, he was sure of that much, but still. He should be protecting his family, that was his duty, and that didn’t just mean Pete. He’d already failed his mother and sister. What had become of her? Was she married? Patrick supposed she probably had children by now. That would make him an uncle. 

 

Good god, he was getting old.

The flat was eerily quiet when he slipped through the front door. And by eerily, he meant suspiciously.

“Pete?” His jacket was half-heartedly thrown in the approximate direction of a coat hanger. Patrick didn’t bother checking if it made it there. “Peter?” 

 

He peered into the living room. Empty. Kitchen, then.

 

Pete was, in fact, in the kitchen, but Patrick didn’t get the chance to comment on the state of it and him before he was shooed out by his boyfriend frantically waving his arms and shouting “Out! Out!” and slamming the door in his face. Slightly bewildered, Patrick plodded into his bedroom to fish his book from under the pile of clothes on the floor next to his side of the bed before flopping down on the much too saggy sofa in the tiny little living room where the walls were too close and the window was too small. It was a book Pete had brought him a few months ago. He’d already read it cover to cover two times, but it was his favourite and, well, who was going to stop him from reading it a million times if that was what he wanted? He suspected – no, he knew – Pete had no clue what Heinrich Böll’s  _ Erzählungen _ were about, how could he, it was all in German and after almost 20 years, Pete still barely understood a word of it. Bloody Americans.

 

He wasn’t sure how long he was sprawled out on the couch for, not because he was so engrossed in the little book (no matter how fascinating, Patrick suspected nothing could ever be enough to fully hold his attention), but because he fell asleep. When Pete gently shook him by the shoulder, the first thing he became aware of was the way his mouth was hanging open, drool sliding down his face and forming a puddle on the beige covering. He hastily wiped it away, fixing his askew glasses as his eyes snapped open to meet Pete’s warm gaze. Something fluttered in Patrick’s chest.

 

“Dinner’s ready.” His voice was quiet and kind, taking into account that Patrick’s ears might not be ready for full volume conversation right now. He tried not to think how stupid he must look trying to peel himself off the sofa. In all honesty, he didn’t care much.

 

A little smile twitched at the corners of his mouth when he walked into what he supposed was his kitchen. He said supposed because, well… he wasn’t quite sure where Pete had got the stuff to turn it into the smallest little restaurant hidden away in a Parisian alleyway. Not that Patrick had ever been to Paris, not that Patrick had ever really been anywhere outside of the GDR and Poland, but Pete had and Pete had shown him the three pictures he always showed everybody who made the mistake of mentioning the place in his presence. Pete loved Paris.

 

Patrick wished he could take him there.

 

This was what he imagined little Parisian restaurants hidden away in back alleys to look like: dimly lit by little more than a few candles, shades of rich browns and ruby reds glowing warm in the firelight, neat tablecloths spreading out below tidy plates and cutlery framing carefully constructed meals. Patrick sat on the chair Pete had pulled out for him, taking in the carving of beef on his plate, sitting snugly on a bed of richly seasoned vegetables.

 

He tried to find something to say, something that basically boiled down to  _ I love you, you fucking bastard, but why the fuck would you go to all this trouble instead of just agreeing to a date somewhere that isn’t our own flat, I can’t believe you’d do this, it’s amazing, thank you, you idiot, please never leave me,  _ and all he came up with was: “I didn’t know you could cook…”

 

Pete’s raised eyebrow was enough of a reply for him to finish that line of conversation.

 

The meat was tender, still red in the middle, just as it should be and Patrick tried to not think too hard about the electricity bill such intensive use of the oven would bring with it. The fucking fridge already gobbled so much he found himself wondering if it had really been worth the effort of getting it.

It tasted as good as it looked.

 

“So, uh…” Patrick glanced up briefly when Pete started plodding around whatever was making him shift uncomfortably in his chair and fidget with his knife. He knew something was off. He’d been ignoring it all day, he wasn’t fucking stupid. When you live with somebody, you know when something isn’t right, when their hair is just an inch shorter, when their voice is just a fraction lower, when their body is barely a degree colder. Pete had been out of focus all day.

 

“So you know how I’ve been doing some spring cleaning?” Yes. Yes, Patrick did know. He literally couldn’t miss the way Pete had been running around the flat with a pink feather duster.

 

“I umh… I found…” Oh dear. What? What had he unearthed? Patrick’s terrible attempt at writing a novel? The dresses that had belonged to his ex-girlfriend and were still in his wardrobe for no particular reason other than he’d had a phase where he’d liked to wear them around the flat? The black dildo Patrick had not yet dared to break out? “… like, a box of photos?”

 

Oh dear god.

 

“Ugh, alright, let’s have it, tell me how fat I was in ’55, go on.” Patrick braced himself for the mockery.

It never came.

 

He felt uneasy.

 

“Pete?” There was something serious about him, lines drawn across his face that aged him by ten years. He looked old. Patrick didn’t like it.

 

He reached out across the table and took Pete’s hand, thumb carefully stroking across dry, cracked knuckles. He needed to start using lotion. Patrick had told him this.

 

Pete’s eyes were fixed on their intertwining fingers. He sighed heavily, shoulders heaving with the effort of it. Patrick just wished he’d speak.

 

“I’m… not talking about those ones… they’re cute, though, you’re cute fat. I mean, you’re always cute, but like…” He shook his head, “I’m not… for once, I’m not gushing over you… kinda, I… Patrick, who’s… who’s the Nazi? In your photos?”

 

What?!

 

Patrick was staring. Patrick knew he was staring because Pete was staring back. He knew he was staring wide-eyes and open mouthed because Pete poked his chin until he shut it again. Even then, he was pretty certain he had misheard.

 

“I’m… what?”

 

“The…” Pete seemed uncertain now, “the Nazi, the one in your family photos?”

 

“What family photos? I don’t have a family!” the ghost of a frown crossed Pete’s face, just for a split second, but, well… voice a fraction lower. The worst thing was Pete looked suspicious. In all their time together, Pete had never looked suspicious. Well, save when Patrick all but shoved him onto their bed, glint in his eye. This wasn’t one of those moments.

 

“Pete,” he started, trying to find a more diplomatic approach, “I really,  _ really _ don’t know what you’re talking about… what photos? I don’t…”

 

“Hang on,” with a sigh, Pete stood up and left the kitchen, fingers lightly grazing Patrick’s arm as he moved past him. Patrick could hear his wardrobe door squeak open, the sound of rustling punctuated by dull thuds as Pete rummaged through his stuff. Damn, why couldn’t he just have found the dresses?

Patrick snatched the photos from Pete’s hands the second he re-entered the room, not giving him a chance 

to start off with some explanation.

 

They were old. Really old. Brown and faded, the surface already chipped in places. Oh, Patrick recognized them. He didn’t remember them. As he stared down at himself, barely six months old, in his mother’s arms, his dad next to her, both smiling happily, he felt his chest constrict. The next one was no better, it was him in his sister’s lap, her little doll clutched between his tiny hands. She looked happy. He looked happy. He couldn’t… he…

 

He put the stack of photographs on the table when he saw his brother and dad grinning broadly, a proud father and his strong, clever son. Georg had been so clever. Much cleverer than him. He shouldn’t have died.

 

And then he saw Pete’s hand, his fingers delicately shuffling the stack of photographs, like they were searching for something, like… oh.

 

Oh.

 

“This one,” his voice was nothing but kind and gentle, even if there was still that undertone that spoke of doubt and suspicion. Just cold enough for Patrick to notice. He also noticed Pete’s free hand was lying across his shoulders, thumb gently stroking the side of his neck.

 

He wasn’t mad.

 

He wasn’t.

 

He could explain. Maybe then he wouldn’t be disappointed, either.

 

“That’s… my dad.” He gestured at the photograph of his father. Blonde hair neatly parted at the side, combed back, moustache well-trimmed, the swastika just visible at the edge of the photograph. He felt sick.

 

“Your dad was… was a Nazi?” there was a pang in Patrick’s chest. The disappointment was apparent down.  _ Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you hide it? Why did you lie to me? _ Pete didn’t have to say them for Patrick to hear the words.

 

“No, he… I mean… everybody was, y’know… it was just… the safest thing, really?”

 

“Unless you were Jewish. Or disabled. Or, y’know…” there was an accusatory pause that Patrick  _ knew _ would be followed up with… “queer.” He shook his head. It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t that simple. Being… following the rules meant safety. It meant your children weren’t taken away, your wife wasn’t locked up and you weren’t executed. It was just… life. It was all they knew, it was their only option.

 

He knew Pete didn’t understand that.

 

“I didn’t tell you because…”  _ forgive me, father _ , “because I was ashamed.” It was the answer Pete had wanted. Patrick bit his tongue to keep back the fire in his gut, the one that was threatening to burn out his lungs and ignite Pete, engulfing him in a cacophony of desperate yells and accusations that he didn’t understand, he could  _ never _ understand.

 

He held it back.

 

It wasn’t worth it.

 

Instead, he leaned into the hug he was pulled into, strong arms forming a solid shield around his body. Or maybe he was being constricted. Either way, it felt safe. Enough to forget about the anger boiling within 

him.

 

They fucked slowly that night. Usually that didn’t happen when Patrick was the one surrounded by wet, tight heat, driven close to madness, challenging himself to go faster, harder,  _ more _ with every thrust, but that night… he just wanted Pete. He didn’t know why. It just felt important he take in every inch of him, ever twitch of muscle beneath golden skin, every ripple of sweat-covered ink, every rasping breath and quiet moan. Pete wasn’t the loud one. Pete had never been the loud one. It felt important in that moment.

 

“I love you,” Patrick muttered into hair that was gradually coiling more and more the longer it got, the smell of cigarette smoke hanging in the air between them. He plucked it from Pete’s lips and placed it to his own, taking one long, satiating draw before tapping it against the ashtray on the nightstand. It felt important to say it.

 

Pete smiled at him and gently kissed him. He tasted of burning lungs and dried come. He didn’t have to reply, Patrick knew. Patrick knew Pete knew. Just this once, Patrick would have liked a reply.

“We’ll get out of here someday,” Pete said to his nipple. Patrick glanced to the window as though somebody might be standing by it, listening. They were on the third floor.

 

“We will?”

 

“Yeah,” he sounded convinced. Pete. “We’ll go live in America. Somewhere in a big house in the countryside or something, where nobody bothers us.”

 

“Aren’t like… the people in the countryside all, like, super anti-gay?”

 

“Shut up, we’ll live on a farm and keep a few chickens and make babies all day.” Patrick frowned.

 

“I’d like to meet your mother someday, I think there’s an important talk she should have given you a few years ago…”

 

“Shut up.” Patrick shut up, mainly to fill his body with more smoke. He didn’t know how much he believed that these things were truly harmless, they didn’t  _ feel _ harmless, but he didn’t care enough to want to stop.

 

“Or we could stay here forever,” Pete suggested, “just you and me and this bed. All I ever need.” Patrick smiled at nothing in particular and slung his arm around Pete’s shoulders, pulling him closer until he was lying on his chest.

 

“I dunno,” Patrick muttered past the cigarette trapped between his lips, “I like the idea of a few chickens.”

They came in the night. They had to, really, it was all going too well, wasn’t it? The worst thing about it was that Patrick had let himself believe, just for a second, that this was forever, he had him now. Like it was going to be that easy. At first, he hadn’t known why he’d stirred, but after barely a minute, he heard the knocking.

 

Knocking in the night.

 

That was never a good sign.

 

He’d wanted to get up, to go and see who had come to drag him off to a hole in the ground, telling Pete to hide, to climb out of the window, anything. He was held back by a firm hand on his chest, pushing him down, down, own and Patrick didn’t have the strength to fight against Pete, no matter how hard he tried.

 

He could follow him though.

 

The night wasn’t black, it never is, it’s a million shades of blue. Patrick needed to feel Pete. It was important. He reached out for him, their fingers tangling just for a second before the door was opened. It almost hurt.

 

One had curly hair. Patrick knew him from the bar. Joe, it was Joe. The relief he felt at the absence of Russians in trench coats and hats didn’t last long.

 

“No.”

 

“Yes, Wentz. If you don’t come with us now, they’ll come for you. You know which option is less painful.”

 

“No.”

 

It was futile.

 

It was dumb.

 

They were dumb.

 

Of course, it wasn’t going to be this easy. And yet, for a moment there, they’d thought they’d got away with it.

 

Pete didn’t even say goodbye, not properly. He promised he’d be back soon, he just had to clear this mess up, it wouldn’t take him long. But the kiss felt like farewell and the expression on the tall guy’s face didn’t speak of a brief absence.

 

Pete didn’t come back the next day. Or the day after. 

 

Patrick stopped waiting after three months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and kudos would be rad seeing as i don't get paid for this shit, my tumblr is scmi-sweet


End file.
